Mine Protector
by MissMoppet
Summary: Hermione as a unique double agent in the HP Universe [Hermione/Snape, mostly]. Chapter 20 has finally been added. Please read the new authors note.
1. An Early Owl

Hermione and Co. belong to Ms. Rowling, not me. I'm making not a cent from this fanfic.  
Responses welcome!  
  
Mine Protector  
  
Helena woke at 8:00--far too early, considering the headache she had, but someone, or something, was making a ruckus just outside her bedroom window, a scurrying sound right against the glass that drove into her drowsy head like an ice pick. "Whatssit?" She slurred, throwing a hand over her eye and stretching. The noise continued. She spread her fingers and gazed through them at the high-beamed ceiling, then finally rolled on her side. A wineglass was perched carelessly at the very edge of her nightstand, a few drops of redness still pooled at the bottom, a sight which served only to intensify her headache.   
  
"Fine!" She said outloud, startling even herself, and sat upright, kicking the blankets off her legs. The floors of the little post-war suburban house were freezing, even on a summer morning, and she had to tip-toe her way to the window at first, dodging the piles of laundry she had folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The noise that had woken her was coming directly from her west-facing window, of that she was sure--she could even see something moving behind the eggshell white curtains. Slowly, she lifted back a corner of the fabric and peeked outside; she saw nothing at first, just her neighbors stately maple tree. No one, she thought, puzzled. Then quite suddenly, a giant brown bird swooped down, chirping shrily, batting at the window with its wings. She stepped back with a little squeak of her own, letting go of the shade. After mentally scolding herself for such unnecessary caution, she breathed a sigh of amused relief and opened the window to let the owl in.  
  
---  
  
Vacation was over. The wine glasses had been rinsed out and lined up in the cupboard; laundry had been folded into great big steamer trunks, along with shoes and spellbooks and parchment. The house was neat as a pin, almost as if no one lived here, and looked for all the world like an ordinary muggle household. Only a sharp wizard's eye would be able to idenfity the foe-glass that hung over the fireplace mantle--to anyone else it looked like a delicate, cathedral arched mirror that reflected nothing more than a tidy sitting area filled with stylish, but modest, furnishings. Other misleading objets de art filled the house, looking like pretty trinkets, when really they served a much greater purpose: Egyptian sneakoscopes lined up on bookshelves, as did a number of enchanted fallacy stones that could be used for weighing truth and lies--one only needed to hold the stones while talking with someone, and the mass of the stones would change depending on the truthfullness of the subject. These were all the tools of an Auror. They belonged to Helena Black.   
  
She was sitting in the sunroom located at the back of the house, kneeling on a seagrass mat, deep in thought. This was where she often came to meditate, to practice Tai Chi--the Eastern muggle practice that actually had its roots in wizardry--and to work on weapons training. The room, which was mostly empty, had a wardrobe at one end which was stuffed to the gills with what looked like every lethal weapon known to man: knives, hatchets, swords, and even muggle shotguns. Helena was adept at weilding all of them--especially the knives, which were her speciality--but had been using them, as of late, for pure defensive tactics. With the bullseye charm, she could easily enchant the weapons to take aim at her, all of them flying swiftly at her from different directions, so that she could deflect them before any actually came close to harming her. Sometimes she banished the weapons away with a murmured spell and her wand, but once a weapon was in close range, she preferred to physically remove it with a high kick or a deflect of the wrist. Dodging was used only as a last resort--a last resort that, thanks to repeated training, she rarely had to take.  
  
Helena knew she should get in one last round of training before leaving London, but she found that her mind was too cluttered--hours of meditation had done nothing to sweep her thoughts away. Calm. Concentrate... she whispered to herself. Her tightened chest muscles loosed a bit at the mantra, but her mind raced on in abandonment, flooded with paranoia.  
  
Is this what did in Moody? she wondered, tightening her fists. Was it a barage of worry that picked him up like a wave and held him there, half-crazed? The question was enough to calm her down, oddly. She had to perserve, had to hold on to her strength. She couldn't let what happened to Moody happen to her. The stakes were too high.   
  
Dumbledore's early owl was what had her in knots. "You should be first to know of new developments at Hogwarts for this upcoming term," he'd written on a scrap of parchment--he hadn't used official Hogwarts stationary, which meant this was a letter he'd sent to her only, and informally, at that. His script was a bit more hurried than usual, and Helena discovered just why when she read on to discover that there would be a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, come fall.   
  
Sirius Black.   
  
Uncle Sirius...she thought remotely, testing out the phrase in her head.   
  
She'd sat promptly back on the bed after reading Dumbledore's letter, the throb in her head intensifying. The school owl took a drink of water from her bathroom soapdish, groomed his feathers for a good ten minutes, then took off out the window. Just as he left, a tiny silver fluff zoomed into the room, bobbing wildly around her shoulders so that she couldn't even track it with her eyes. "Stop!" she finally shouted, snatching Ron Weasley's owl out from mid-air and cupping him in her hands. She sat like that, hunched on the end of the bed for several minutes--hair hanging over her eyes, the tiny owl hooting contentedly--before finally untying the soiled piece of parchment that was attached to its foot. She recognized Ron's sloppy writing immediatly, a single line that read: "Surprise B-day party for Harry next weekend. Mum says you can stay through 'til school starts, if you like. Send word back with Pig."   
  
Helena sighed, then forced herself up from the bed and over the dresser, which was crowded with books and supplies. She grabbed her second-best quill and used it to scratch out a quick reply in the back of Ron's note. "Sounds Great, Ron," she wrote, then paused for a moment. "Parents on holiday. I'll take friday's 5 o'clock train." Pig was ambling around her pillow as if intent on making himself a little hollow to nest in, and protested a little when she tied the note around his leg. "Rest as long as you like," she said. "Just remember that Ron's waiting." At her words Pig seemed to nod, then closed his eyes in exhaustion.   
  
Two surprise letters in one day. Well, she had been expecting to hear from Ron sooner or later; it was practically tradition that she and Harry come to the Burrow for a visit in the weeks before school started. But knowing that she would have to stay with the Weasley's while at the same time preparing to live under the same roof as her Uncle. . .well, she didn't know if she could pull it off without giving herself away. She took a shower as she thought her dilemma over, and when she stepped out from the billowing steam, she felt a little better. Wrapping herself in a light cotton robe, she swiped the bathroom mirror clear of moisture before taking a good look at herself. "You're Helena Black," she told herself. "Twenty-two years old. Apprentice Auror to the Order of the Phoenix." She swept back her hair and studied her profile. It wasn't particularly remarkable; she had a cutesy, upturned nose, full lips and long lashes. She certainly didn't look dangerous. "Voldemort killed your parents." She stepped away from the mirror, letting her eyes unfocus until she could no longer see herself clearly.   
  
It was time to become Hermione Granger.   
  
---  
  
Helena kept all her potion-making equipments and untensils in the kitchen, just like any good witch did, but her couldron was housed in a cupboard along with ordinary muggle appliances like a toaster over and an electric wok. The vials of bat's teeth, scorpion tails, marigold essence, and boomslang were crowded on a shelf alongside saffron, sweet basil, and curry powder. Helena didn't necessarily feel pressure to live like a muggle--no one, including Ron and Harry, had visited her here, after all--but she found that she had a taste for certain muggle foods, like Masala, for one. And she didn't mind the muggle appliances, either--they were especially handy to use on occasions when a great big cauldron fire would have attracted the curiosities of her muggle neighbors. But because of the wide variety her kitchen contained it took her nearly an hour to round up all the ingredients necessary for the VesClotho potion, and she was startled to discover that she was nearly out of the potion's key ingrediant, fairy-lash. Fairy-lash was just what it sounded: the tiny, glitter-like eyelashes of fairies. To be harvested, a fairy had to first be caught, then be made to sit still while having its eyelashes magically plucked. Not a pretty sight--the plucking didn't hurt, but fairies, being notoriously vain, were ususally furious with the results. Luckily, Helena found just enough fairy-lash crusted around at vial's rim to finish concocting the VesClotho, and now the potion was simmering quietly on the stovetop.   
  
While waiting for the potion to brew, Helena sat at the kitchen table and removed a small hand mirror from the pocket of her robe. She checked out her reflection quickly, noting that her hair had returned to its natural color--a deep, tarry black--over the course of her summer vacation; she would have to re-lighten it again. "Lumosify" she murmurred, holding the tip of her want to her temple; with that, her hair lightened drastically from the roots outward, turning a soft, ochre-brown color. She held up her hair and turned her head, checking it from every angle. Now, what to do about these curls, she thought, biting her lower lip. Her hair was naturally wavy, and hung quite heavily over her shoulders. Usually she completed her disguise by giving the hair a good frizz-up--a touch that she thought made her look studious and unencumbered. But surely, at the age of sixteen, Hermione Granger could be expected to have taken a concern with her appearance? It's not -that- vain to want smooth hair, she mentally insisted, deciding to forego the frizz-job for once. After the hair came the lumi-eyes, a wizarding brand of eyedrops that could temporarily change the user's eye color. The bottle, labeled "hazel", had been purchased at Hogsmeade last Spring, and would last her until Christmas, at least. The only trouble was that, unlike the Lumosify spell, which would last for up to three months, the lumi-eyes had to be applied weekly. Thankfully, she had always been regorous about remembered to put in the eye drops every Sunday while at Hogwarts (she had a remembrall in the same drawer as the eyedrops, just in case, but it had yet to light up in reminder). To her knowledge, not one person at school other than Dumbledore had any idea that her eyes were actually green.  
  
Just as she finished with the eyedrops, a small "Pop!" came from the cauldron that she'd set up on her modern gas stovetop. Ah, the VesClotho was ready. Like the Lumosify Spell, the effects of VesClotho would last for a few months before finally fading away from her body; its purpose was to reduce Helena's physical age from twenty-two to sixteen. A small difference, really--especially when compared with the wretching transformation from age seventeen to age eleven, a process she'd undergone during her first year as Hermione Granger. How shocking it had been to feel her breasts shrink away, her hips narrow until her skirt slipped off and she was left with a prepubescent body, all awkward, skinny angles. In some ways, transforming herself to the age of twelve had been even worse--at that age she re-entered puberty for a second(!) time, and felt her body flood with horrible hormones and feelings of anxiety and puppylove. She had forgotten how awful adolescence was, and though reducing her body back to those early years was necessary, it'd been the cause of many mistakes on her part, too. Afterall, if it hadn't been for that horrible eleven-year old's brand of insecurity, she would have never been crying in the bathroom when Professor Quarral had set a mountain troll loose in the castle, feeling sensitive about that fact that she couldn't get two miserable first-year boys like Harry and Ron to befriend her. She just begun to laugh hysterically, feeling stupid about the whole thing, when the troll had knocked the bathroom door off its hinges. Luckily, she'd been in her right mind to let Ron and Harry save her. Blasting a good stun at the troll would have only made the boys wonder how she'd acquired the power to cast such a potent spell in only her first year. Plus being the damsel in distress delievered her right into their good graces--Ron and Harry had realized, for the first time, that Hermione Granger actually needed someone.   
  
Helena Black, on the other hand, needed no one. Aside from Dumbledore's knowledge of her true identity, she lived her life in secrecy. To the wizarding world, the Helena Black that had graduated from Hogwart's six years ago had eloped to California with an American muggle. "Such a shame about Helena Black," people said, catching wind othe rumor, "So clever, she was." Uncle Sirius believed the same story, as far as she knew. In the few times she'd been in his presence, he hadn't mentioned a neice, nor the deaths of Helena's parents. Maybe... she thought, slowly. Maybe hiding my identity from Sirius won't be as hard as I think. It is, afterall, a chance to see how much he knows about what happened to me...About what happened to mum and dad. She shook the hope loose. Her VesClotho was boiling over.   
  
A few minutes later, Helena was studying the oddly translucent potion on the table before her; she had filled an entire glass, but was trying to calculate how much of it she would have to drink to shave off a few years. Did she even have to drink it at all? She looked her body over; her sixteen year-old body hadn't been much different than what she had now. Her breasts has been the same average size since age fifteen, and she'd always been quite trim and athletic, with broad shoulders and long legs. She looked in the mirror again; it was her face that gave it away. Her eyebrows arched a little too knowingly--cynically, you might say. The charming roundness of adolescence had long left her cheeks and chin, leaving her with a rather defined bone-structure. At sixteen she had been cute. Now she was...Attractive? Elegant? Certainly not beautiful. Not quite, anyway. She decided two swallows would do the trick.   
  
VesClotho tasted, unlike polyjuice potion, quite good. Like a summery drink--lemonade, maybe. It was what it did to Helena's insides that she hated. The potion went down cool and sweet, but as soon as it hit her stomach it burned like nothing imagined. She dropped the glass into the sink and fell to her knees, gasping for air, feeling as if her whole skin was suddenly perforated and leaking out gallons and gallons of lava. Gentle words...gentle words... Helena chanted her favorite mantra silently, clutching her stomach as she rolled to her side, shivering despite the fact she felt on fire. Within a few minutes, the floor felt like a cool kiss against her sweaty cheek.   
  
Now the face in the mirror was filled-out with youthful exhuberance--or was she just red-faced from the VesClotho? No matter; the potion had done its trick. Helena Black was now the spitting image of the Hermione Granger that Harry Potter and the rest of Hogwarts knew so well. Soon she would be at the burrow, and no one would be the wiser. 


	2. Enter Hermione Granger

Hermione and Co. belong to Ms. Rowling, not me. I'm making not a cent from this fanfic.  
Responses welcome!  
  
Mine Protector  
Chapter 2: "Enter Hermione Granger"  
  
Harry had thanked his lucky stars when the Weasley's had saved him from the Dursley's yet again. On the morning of his sixteenth birthday, Ron, Herminone, and Ginny had showed up on Privet drive--muggle style--in one of the ministry cars Arthur Weasley borrowed on occasion. "What? Who...who drove?" Harry had gasped, still realing at his good fortune.  
  
"I did, of course," Hermione said. "I tested for my license over the summer. Pretty big coming of age thing for muggles, you know."   
  
Harry knew. Dudley himself had just received a little vintage Fiat from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia--a reward for (barely) passing most of this classes, and dropping twenty pounds in the process. Not that it did much good; Dudley could still scarcly squeeze himself behind the wheel of the little sports car. Harry had to admit, for once, that the Dursley's could be crafty. What better way to coerce Dudley into losing weight than to dangle a ripe juicey plum of an italian sportscar under his nose?   
  
In the Minestry car, Harry had been impressed with Hermione's knowledge of London's roads--she was also clearly confident behind the wheel, steering with one hand and letting the other rest casually in the open window. Weirdly, it made him feel suddenly younger than her. Don't be such a stupid prat, he scolded himself. Hermione's got muggle parents--most wizards you know don't drive, no matter their age. He noticed that Ron, though, seemed equally taken with Hermione's new skill. Or maybe it was her newly tamed tresses that he was admiring, or the black sleeveless dress she wore that displayed her long, tan arms.   
  
Harry looked hopelessly down at his raggedy Dursley clothes and too-small trainers. In the backseat, Ron wasn't dressed much better--he was wearing an ancient Chudley Cannons tee and his pants were a bit too short for his legs. Ginny looked just as he remembered her. Ah well. Hermione had always seemed more....adult, than the rest of them, he reasoned. There was just something about her.   
  
---  
  
Not long after the famous Harry Potter turned sixteen, young wizards and witches from all over Britain hung up their summer clothes in exchange for crisp school robes. This included one muggle-born Hermione Granger, who boarded the Hogwart's Express with her friends, laughing and betting five galleons that for once, Harry was going to beat Ron at wizarding chess.   
  
"Get bloody serious!" Ron exclaimed, hauling his trunk into a wardrobe inside their compartment.   
  
"Wait and see," Hemione said, releasing a much annoyed Crookshanks from his wicker basket, from which he'd been mewling bitterly ever since they'd made their way to Platform Nine and Three Quarters. To her friends, and to the rest of Hogwart's student body, Hermione was more or less exactly as she'd been for all five of their previous school years: clever, a bit bossy, and definitly more than a bit sure of herself.   
  
And why shouldn't they see all those things? Hermione asked herself. (For she found it impossible to even think of herself as Helena privately while at Hogwarts. Believing in the lies that created Hermione was the only way she could keep up the charade). She'd perfected the persona of Hermione Granger to such a level that she often had to remind herself that she -wasn't- Hermione Granger. On the other hand... if she had spent five years of her life as Hermione, what did that make Helena? Where did Helena go? Was it Hermione that didn't exist, or was it -herself-? Sometimes it was enough to make her want to shut-down, all those nights of laying in the dormitory and reminding herself of her duty to Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, reminding herself of her true identity and purpose.   
  
But no one would ever, not in a million years, guess such conflict lay beneath the cool, assured exterior of Hermione Granger. She entered her sixth year at Hogwarts a little taller than everyone expected, perhaps a little more poised, too. Even Molly Weasley, who should have been too busy with thoughts of her own children to notice such things, had pulled her aside on that first night at the Burrow. "My, Hermione dear," she breathed, holding her at arm's length. "You look quite grown up, I must say. I expect the boys might pass out when they see you." Hermione had giggled bashfully, dodging the compliment without saying a word, though internally she wondered if she shouldn't have taken an extra sip of the VesClotho, just for good measure.  
  
Too late now. Hermione hunted around the train compartment for a place to stash her duffle, but all the space was taken up with trunks, brooms, and animals. "Blast," she mumbled. "If it weren't for dress robes, I could have squeezed everything into one trunk."  
  
"Yeah right," Harry said, watching Ron set up the chessboard. "I saw all those new shoes and saucy skirts you brought to wear under your robes. Thinking of finding a replacement for Krum this term, are we?"  
  
"Hardly," she said. "I'm a prefect now, remember?"   
  
"Uggghh... You're starting to sound just like Perc, Herm." Ron groaned and keeled over as if to be sick.   
  
Hermione ignored him, distracted, and finally slipped out to the hallway, pacing for a few moments before moving down the train until she reached a near-empty car, occupied by two tiny students. First years, presumably. They gazed at her Prefect's badge in awe, not speaking, and barely nodded compliance when she asked if she could store her duffle in their compartment.   
When she returned to her friends, she found that Ron and Harry already had their game underway. Neville Longbottom was dozing in the corner, and Ginny was circling pictures in "Young Modern Witchware", a catalog that was popular with teenaged girls.   
  
"Well!" She exlaimed, looking around brightly. "I think I'll get a head-start on the new Arithmancy book. I've been waiting to crack into it all week."  
  
Even Ginny looked startled at the announcement. "Hermione! Don't you ever rest?" she asked, lowering her catalog just so Hermione could read the exasperation etched on her face.   
  
"Not ever," Hermione said, laughing. "Actually, I'm more curious as to why we had no Defense Against the Dark Arts book to buy this year. It's not like Snape to not require a textbook."  
  
"Ron didn't tell you?" Harry asked her, puzzled, then turned to Ron. "Tell her..." he said, jabbing an elbow in her direction.   
  
"Snape's not teaching it," Ron announced, his mouth stuffed with cockaroach cluster. "Dad told me that Dumbledore had to pull a bunch of strings at the Ministry to bring in a brand new teacher."  
  
"Ha!" Harry chortled a little noise of glee, though it wasn't clear if this was in reaction to what Ron said, or because his knight was currently pummeling Ron's into dust. Then he looked up with a sudden frown. "But why? Why a new Dark Arts teacher? Snape'll have seizures when he finds out he's lost the job."   
  
"Not necessarily," Hermione said, choosing her words carefully. "I mean, he must have known that the Dark Arts position he had last year was only temporary." It was true. Fleur Delacour had taken on the Potion Master's classes for a one year teaching intership, but was now back at Beauxbatons with a full time position--still hypnotizing students with her silvery tresses, no doubt..   
  
"Unfortunately," Ron grimaced. "Potions was a whole lot sunnier last year though, wasn't it?"  
  
Neville let out a little squeak from over in the corner where he'd been sleeping only a few minutes ago. "But Dark Arts...." he breathed, barely audible. "Darks Arts with Snape was terrible!" In actuality, Snape had been a little more pleasant once he'd finally received the coveted Dark Arts position, but unlike his gift for mixing potions, he didn't seem to actually know many practical lessons for fighting the Dark Arts. Instead, he filled the class time with   
long, boring lectures that rivaled Professor Binn's history lessons. During those lectures, Hermione had found herself half-longing for the return of imposter Moody. -Not only were his lessons more interesting,- she'd think, tucking her wand behind her ear absently, -But if he were back, I might be able to....- Of course, she never allowed herself to entertain such thoughts for more than a second.  
  
Harry tilted his head back thoughtfully, then said, not particularly concerned, "Imagine how bad he'll be, though, when he's back at his old potion's post." For all of them, Snape's nastiness had become more or less a fact of life, and for the next ten minutes or so they speculated on who the new Dark Arts instructor might be, wondering outloud whether or not he might actually survive the position for longer than a year.  
  
"What do you mean, 'He'?" Ginny piped up, irritated. "It could be a woman, you know!' At this, Hermione couldn't help but surpress a smile. But she was growing tired of the subject, fully aware that at tonight's feast she would have to act surprised--and pleased, of course--when Dumbledore finally revealed the new Dark Arts professor as Sirius Black. To signal her boredom with the conversation, she propped open "Advanced Arithmancy" and feigned interest in the charts and numbers before her, tapping a new quill against her knee.   
  
Soon enough, Ron and Harry slipped back into the silent concentration that their chess game required, and Ginny and Neville left to find some of the other Gryffindors, leaving Hermione free to gaze out the window absently, her arithmancy book pressed against her chest. Outside, the scenery changed as they headed north--the quiet countryside moors were long behind them, and the train often careened past sheer rock walls and dangerous outcroppings. As the sky darkened, though, her spirits were oddly lifted. Maybe it was being around Ron and Harry again, or maybe it was because...because it was almost nice to be sixteen again, to be heading back to Hogwart's, where a new school year lay out before her like a clean sheet of parchment. She closed her eyes at the thought, and just before dozing off, told herself that this time around, she must not fail.   
  
---  
  
Hermione woke up to several unpleasant pokes in the shoulder, unsure of how much time had passed.  
  
"Herm....Herm!" Ron said, using the tip of his wand to rouse her. "You owe me five galleons. Harry couldn't beat me to save his life."  
  
"I don't care," she groaned, swatting his wand away. "I was having a good dream for once!"  
  
Ron shrugged. "The train's coming to a stop now anyway. Best find my money now, or you're liable to forget."  
  
"With you reminding me? Not likely!" Hermione stood up and stretched. The train was rolling uneasily from side to side as it slowed down, and she took advantage of Crookshank's currently comatose state by slipping him into his basket and latching it shut.   
  
"I see the castle!" Harry exclaimed, his nose pushed up to the window. And as if in conformation, the train's shrill whistle sounded as the steam engine chugged to a halt. Ron was already dragging his trunks out into the hallway, shouting Ginny's name and threatening to leave her things behind if she didn't run help him.   
  
"Ready?" Harry asked, tucking Hedwig's cage under his arm.   
  
"Just about," Hermione said, buttoning her robes. She gathered her things up and was waiting in the hallway, straightening her prefect's badge, when she remembered that she'd left her duffle back in a car full of first-years. She made Harry promise to watch her things, then pushed her way back through the crowd of students waiting to exit the train. A few of them grumbled in annoyance at her approach, but she ignored them--even Malfoy, who hissed "Hey Mudblood..wrong way!" as she lunged past him hurriedly. When she finally made it to the car, it was eerily empty; her duffle was slouched on the floor like an abandoned pet, and was the only piece of luggage in the compartment. But that wasn't all that was left behind. A long strip of parchment had been coiled around the duffle's carrying strap, too obvious to be anything other than a note of some sort. Hermione bent over and unrolled it. It contained a single sentence and took her less than a second to read:   
"I know that you're not who you say you are." 


	3. The Dam Breaks

Hermione and Co. belong to Ms. Rowling, not me. I'm making not a cent from this fanfic.  
Please please please keep the responses coming!  
  
Authors Note: This next chapter is a flashback into Helena/Hermione's past . It removes us away from the present storyline a bit, but I'll think you'll agree with me when I say this chapter is pretty important in terms of the overall story-arc. Tell me what you think!  
(by the way, I'm awful at titles. Please forgive...)  
  
Mine Protector   
Chapter 3: "The Dam Breaks"  
  
Cornelius Fudge was a busy, busy man. Already this morning he'd had a meeting with the dementors at Azkaban, played scrabble with some goblins at the leaky cauldron, and had his daily deep-tissue massage at the the Ministry Country Club. And now he was back at the office, waiting around for Albus Dumbledore--who was late, of course--while trying to put up with an impudent, snip of a girl who insisted on being interviewed for a Ministry position, of all things! She'd come knocking at his door just as he was tucking into his favorite lunch--beef wellington, cooked rare--claiming that she'd made an appointment to see him weeks ago. If she hadn't been wearing a rather tight little chiffon halter dress, Fudge would have sent her promptly away.  
  
"Hear now, Miss...." Fudge faltered, then glanced back down at the girl's resume, clearing his throat. "Miss Black, I'm afraid the Ministry can't accept your application at this time. Mostly because...well, there's lots of reasons...but primarily due to the fact that--"  
  
"Please, sir," the girl said, her voice firm. "Just tell me the truth." She had dark green eyes and a rather smokey, confident gaze, but Fudge noticed that her hands were trembling a bit--she'd been trying to hide them in the folds of her dress for the last few minutes.   
  
Fudge paused, then gave her the once-over. -Looks quite a bit like her murdering Uncle, actually,- he thought, tilting back in his chair casually. -Except for those smashing tits, of course.- The girl had delightfully rosy skin, and even as he looked her up and down, he saw a blush develop high on her cheeks and move south toward her neckline, right to the very spot at which he was staring. She straightened up suddenly, placing her hands flat on the rim of his desk. "Look, Mr. Fudge," she began. "I've grown tired of waiting. I just want to know--will you let me into Aurortor's Training or not?  
  
Fudge threw back his head, laughing loudly, and the girl widened her eyes in response, clearly bewildered. "My dear girl, why on earth do you even want to BE an Auror? You're pretty, young, and talented. Got a sweetheart, I'm sure. Right?" The girl's face turned brilliant crimson at this, and she seemed quite on the verge of losing her temper.   
  
"Sir, I'm sure if you actually read my application, you'd see that I am far too busy and serious about my future to dally with boys!" With that, she slapped her hand on his desk, hard--it certainly wasn't trembling now.  
  
Oops. Fudge decided he had better back off; he certained didn't want his name carried back to the Headmaster on this girl's sharp, acidic tounge. He looked down at the girl's application. -Helena Black- he read, fighting the urge to smirk. -Graduate of the Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry pending this June....Head Girl....Top of class.....Age, Seventeen years- Ah! Now he had her.   
  
"I'm sorry, Miss Black. Only those age eighteen and older can enter Aurortor's training. It's policy."  
  
She bit her lip, looking concerned, and Fudge surpressed a smile; this was something his little minx hadn't counted on.   
  
"But Sir, as you can see from my application, I began Hogwart's at the age of ten instead of the usual eleven. I have the same training as all the eighteen-year olds in my class."  
  
"That may be, but there's still the matter of ministry policy."  
  
Fudge saw some of the steely nerve drain out of her further. She sighed and ran a hand through her long, dark hair--clearly trying to find a loophole in his words. -If you want to convince me, deary...you've got your hand on the wrong person...and in the wrong place..- he through wryly, not bothering to hide his smile.   
  
"I have a letter from Dumbledore," she said desperately. "He wrote a personal recommendation. Will you at least read it?"   
  
"I'll bring it up at our next council meeting," he said, trying to look sympathetic. "But, I must tell you that the Aurortor trainers rarely consider female applicants...this has nothing to do with how the Ministry feels, mind you, but the Aurors claim to have had limited success in training girls in the field.....quite unfortunate, really..."   
  
The girl looked suddenly quite sad, and Fudge broke off his little speech. No, it wasn't sadness that shadowed over her, but something that looked more like resignation. Fudge realized, with a tiny bit of shame, that she had probably heard nothing but bad news during the whole of her short life. She was related to Sirius Black, after all--a notorious dark wizard if there ever was one. And to top things off, he'd heard the girl was convinced that her own parents had been killed by Voldemort, when everyone--muggle and wizard alike--knew that Virgil and Abby Black had died tragically when a storm took their house down. -So that's what it is...- he thought, finally putting the pieces together. -She wants to be an Auror...restore the family name...find justice for her parents, as well..- Fudge could understand her position. But understanding her didn't mean he could bend the rules, even if she was a saucy young thing.   
  
"I'm sorry, Miss Black," Fudge finally said, his voice a little softer now. "I'm afraid you're out of luck."  
  
---  
  
Helena couldn't believe what a fool she'd been. She'd spent all week filling out tedious applications, and most of her seventh year researching Auror training and skills in the restricted section of the library; she'd had her hair done in Hogsmeade, bought an expensive new dress, and spent several hours on the Knight Bus...all to come out to London and meet with Cornelius Fudge. And the real topper was that she still had two exams to take before she officially graduated! -All that work...- she thought bitterly -..and he treated me like nothing...like a joke!- She plopped down on the stairs in the middle of the Ministry lobby, located in a towering atrium that was filled with piped-in Phoenix song and a great deal of giant, tropical plantlife. Many wizards were hurrying up and down the stairs, looking very hassled and business-like, and quite a few shot her unpleasant looks for having the nerve to set herself down in the middle of traffic.   
  
"Feeling down, Miss Black?" a familiar voice suddenly asked, startling her out of her hopeless reflection. She looked up, momentarly blinded by all the sunlight that filled the lobby, and then realized she was looking into the face of her headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.   
  
She leaped up immeadiatly, smoothing down her dress, wishing she'd worn her school robes--or at least her Head Girl badge. "Sir!" she bleated helplessly. "I know it's a school day-- but if you remember, you gave me permission to come here today..I had an interview, you see.."  
  
"Don't trouble yourself, Helena--I remember," he said, offering her a warm smile. "But I gather that the interview didn't go as you had planned. Otherwise, you wouldn't be sulking about on the steps on the Ministry, would you?"  
  
Helena felt her face burn in agony. She should have left Fudge's office with her head held high, she knew; it wasn't like her to admit defeat so easily. "Your assumptions are correct, headmaster," she said, her tone respectful. "I'm afraid I had my hopes up."   
  
"Helena, if you're not in a hurry to get back to Hogwarts--"  
  
"No sir," Helena interrupted, shaking her head vigorously. "I don't think I can even think about going back until I've had a bit of time to clear my head. I...I hope that's okay with you."  
  
"Actually, Miss Black," Dumbledore continued, and though his voice was kind, his eyes suggested a hint of amusement. "I thought it might be nice for us to have a bit of lunch before you head out. I know of a cafe down the street that makes divine curry."  
  
Helena swallowed back her surprise. She almost asked him if he hadn't ought to get up to see Fudge first--seeing as how the man had been waiting for him for over an hour--but then remembered how the letch had looked her over with his wee, swine eyes. "I love curry," she answered, smiling for the first time all day. "How did you know?"   
  
---  
  
Dumbledore suspected that by the time she'd munched on a good bit of biryani and malai kofta--washed down with plenty of mango juice--Helena's spirits were significatly lifted. She seemed delighted, too, to see him order a whole tandoori chicken and devour it without the aid of utensils, a linen napkin tucked into his robes. They talked about American muggle cinema during their lunch, and she looked positively dizzy with supressed joy when he claimed that she resembled a young Lauren Bacall. "...Just put your lips together and blow," she quipped, laughing, then confessed that she'd always had a mad crush on Peter Sellers, despite his quirkiness.   
  
"Quirkiness, my dear," he began, closing his eyes. "Is, at times, one's best virtue."  
  
She grinned openly, and he reflected silently on the tall, studious girl before him. Helena Black was one of his most special pupils, one that he had watched particularly close during all her years at Hogwarts. Certainly, Dumbledore tried to see the best in all his students, though it was hard to look past the canoodlings of a few Slytherins, at times. But Helena he'd always taken a special interest in, partly because she was so very bright. It was no surprise that--with a mind like hers--she'd ended up in Ravenclaw, and had been appointed Head Girl during her seventh year. McGongall claimed that Helena's transfiguration skills were near-equal to her own, and even Severus Snape begrudgingly admitted that she had a unique gift with cauldrons. Yes, it was a pleasure to see a star like Helena glow so brightly--but her brightness wasn't why Dumbledore had kept careful tabs on her all these years.   
  
Once, during a particularly engaging conversation with the school sorting-hat (yes, the old hat really was an insufferable gossip--on days when he needed a lift, Dumblebore liked to tuck it down over his ears and let it dish for a while), he'd learned that Helena had been especially hard to sort out during her first year "What a mind on that child!" the hat said gleefully. "And courage in spades! Though a bit insure of herself for Gryffindor, I think. Really, the girl has enough ambition to wipe Slytherins clear off the slate, but that Hufflepuff sense of humility tilts the scale in the other direction..." Dumbledore wasn't surprised to hear of Helena's near four-way tie between the Hogwart's houses; many children were, after all, difficult to sort out. In his experience, Dumbledore found that those who possessed the all four qualities notorious to the emblems of Hogwart's often made the best students; they were fair-minded and popular, and possessed a type of flexible thinking that comes from having an innate, multi-faceted character.  
  
On the other hand, these same Renaissance children--the bright stars of Hogwarts--were often tugged in dangerously different directions by their own constantly conflicted will. They perched themselves on top the pinnacle of perfection, which meant that it was easier for a vigorous wind to blow them off course. And if they had an unstable upbringing, this tended to only exaserbate the problem. Dumbledore had seen it happen before--sometimes with only mild consequences, but also--though very rarely--with the most horrific play of events thinkable...the most extreme exmample being the case with Tom Riddle, of course.   
  
"Your food isn't too spicy, is it professor?" Helena asked, tugging at her napkin uncertainly--almost as if she sensed that he was mentally assessing her. That was another of her more notable gifts--a keen sense of intuition.   
  
"Not at all, Helena. I was just thinking about the meeting with Fudge I'm to have this afternoon. I'm sure he's quite upset with my tardiness by now."  
  
Helena nodded carefully. "He did strike me as a little....distracted."  
  
"Yes," Dumbledore said, cooling his palate with a long swallow of mango juice. "We have a special arrangement to work out for next year's fall term. There's a very unique student who will be enrolling at that time."  
  
Helena looked faintly honored at being worthy of Dumbledore's business issues. She tried to think of a way to ask him for more details without appearing nosy, but before she could, he spoke again, his voice taking on a more serious tone.  
  
"Tell me, Helena," he began. "You were at the Ministry to inquire into Auror Training. Am I correct?"  
  
"Yes," she said, her face falling at once. Dumbledore wondered, not for the first time, if her earnest, eager-to-please exterior wasn't a facade for a more melancholy, almost sullen young lady.   
  
"I gather from your expression that your day did not go as planned," he prompted, his voice gentle but even.  
  
"No...no one told me I had to be eighteen," she stammered, seeming on the verge of frustrated tears. Her food, which only moments ago she had been tucking into with gusto, was pushed aside, forgotten. "Or that being female would put me at such a disadvantage."  
  
Dumbledore smiled sympathetically. "Why, I'm surprised that Cornelius would be such a stickler for regulation. Even as Minister, he's been known to make exceptions from time to time," he said, but didn't sound particularly surprised at Helena's revelation, as if he'd known all along how Fudge would react to the prospect of placing a young witch into the Ministry's highly selective Aurorship program.   
  
Helena reacted to his words with hot tears; they slipped down to her jaw-line in a steady stream, but she made no effort to wipe them away. Nor did she sob outloud. If anything, she seemed to grow more resolute--she sat up straight and began re-arranging her utensils, very business-like, assuming that Dumbledore had said his piece and would now be on his way, leaving to finally catch his meeting with Fudge.   
  
But she was wrong. Dumbledore was not finished, and had no intention of leaving. "Miss Black, there is not one current student at Hogwart's who can match you in the fields of charms, potions, and transfiguration. And your skills at Arithmancy and herbology are equally impressive. And if my memory serves me correctly--and I have no reason to give up on it now--the only student who tops you at anything is perhaps Charlie Weasley, with his knack for unusual creatures." Not surprisingly, Helena remained un-moved by his speech. These were the same things she'd heard in all her years at Hogwarts. The best this, the best that...   
  
But Dumbledore still wasn't finished, and he leaned over as if to speak directly into her face: "With all these talents and gifts, you could do anything you wanted with your life--in the muggle or magic world--but instead you tell me that you want to be an Auror....an unforgiving, dangerous, medium-wage paying job. Am I right?"   
  
Helena blinked. "Right," she replied.   
  
"Why?"  
  
The word hung there like an unintelligible curse. Why? It was a question that Helena hadn't even entertained until now. She tried to begin simply. "Because..." she began, choosing her words with care. "It's a noble thing to do. To protect and serve, so to speak. To monitor the world for evil in its variety of disguises, fighting the dark arts...it's what ever witch or wizard wants to do in some fashion, isn't it?"  
  
Dumbledore's face searched hers. "That's an idealistic notion, Miss Black. One that I admire greatly..." he trailed off, then began again, his voice serious once more. "But are you sure you don't have a more personal agenda?"  
  
"I...I'm not sure what you mean, professor," she said, her eyebrows knitting together in concern.   
  
"As the only member of the Black family who walks this earth freely, isn't it quite possible that you'd like to acquire the Auror skills necessary to track down Lord Voldemort...so that you might be the one who finally kills him?"   
  
Helena felt as if she'd been slapped, or perhaps doused with a pail of ice-water. The professor's voice wasn't unkind, but she felt accused, nonetheless...as well as suddenly flushed with a sweeping sensation of guilt. She felt mango juice rising at the back of her throat, fruity and sour. "Voldemort's dead," she intoned, rather short of breath.   
  
"We both know that's not true," Dumbledore said softly, leaning back in his chair and staring at her for a long, long moment, which made her feel as if she'd suddenly disappointed him. -Ha- she thought. -This is pretty rich...I disappoint a teacher for the first time in my life, and it just has to be the headmaster-. At the same time, though, she felt like Dumbledore's words meant that he actually believed the same thing she'd been convinced of her whole life: that Voldemort HAD killed her parents..that their death wasn't the freak accident everyone made it out to be. At this sudden insight, she felt a tiny bit of hope explode at the base of her ribcage.  
  
"Is it wrong, then..." she whispered, searching his face intently. "Is it wrong to want a killer brought to justice...to want to avenge the murder of my parents?"  
  
"There's nothing wrong with wanting justice, Helena," he said, quite grave. "But vengence is another matter entirely. Vengence is what warped Voldemort into the Dark Lord we remember today."  
  
She wrinkled her nose, quizzical. "How?"  
  
"Voldemort was once my student," he began, and Helena had the distinct feeling that she was about to hear a story that Dumbledore hadn't spoke of in a very long time. "And thoughts of revenge consumed him....revenge against the parents who abandoned him, and against the students who mocked him for his mixed-blood. Soon his revenge was aimed at the muggle world at large, and when that wasn't enough, he turned on the wizarding community--terrorizing the very people who brought him to power."   
  
Helena shook her head, as if trying to ward off his words. "But what you're saying....I would never do those things! I don't want revenge against muggles or wizards or anyone else--I just want Voldemort dead and in the ground! I want every ugly nightmare I've had of him wiped clean from my mind, and I want him to pay...pay TENFOLD for all those who died at his hand!" She gasped and let out a thin wail, knowing she was close to sobbing openly for the first time in ages--something she hadn't let herself do since she'd seen the wreckage of her family's house ten years ago. Her shoulders and arms were quaking, and she tried desperatly to hold herself in, feeling as if some horrible torrent of ugliness would soon burst her skin open wide. She clasped both hands over her mouth to block out the agony, fully aware that all others in the restaurant had their eyes on her. "I just want to rest," she said, her hands muffling her words. "Just rest. That's all, I swear."  
  
"For now..." Dumbledore said, not at all alarmed by her outburst. "But where do you go after that? What's there left to be done once the Darkest wizard to walk this earth is brought down?  
  
And at this, Helena was spent of all words. 


	4. An Unexpected Offer

Again, H. and Co. are property of J.K. Rowling. And I'm poor as hell so BACK OFF! =)  
  
Authors Note: This chapter is another lengthy flashback into HG/HB's past. I promise we'll get back to the present after this one. For those who are into fast-paced plot and steamy lovins', I can tell you that it's definitly coming! I just have a compulsion to create complex, fully developed characters/histories first. Thanks for your patience! Meanwhile, keep the comments and responses coming!  
  
Mine Protector   
Chapter 3: "An Unexpected Offer"  
  
Helena was sitting on the lawn in front of Hogwarts, her knees tucked up under her chin, looking out over the grounds. In the lake, first and second years were wading in summer-clothes, while most of the upper class students were enjoying a last day of socializing down in Hogsmeade. Helena thought of joining them, but after finishing her last exam that morning, she'd found her spirits oddly deflated. She should be celebrating--she would be graduating in two days, and was even head of her graduating class, at that.   
  
But perhaps she should have spent her seven years at Hogwarts differently. While she was well-liked by other students, she couldn't say she had even a single close friend to call her own--no one to whisper to in the great hall or pass secret notes back and forth with during potions. And she was fully aware that part of the reason she wasn't at Hogsmeade today was because no one had invited her along; her classmates simply expected that Helena Black had her own business to attend to--that was the impression they'd had of her all these years. If she had showed up at the Three Broomsticks, many of the seventh years would have smiled and called her over to join them, and she would have gladly done so. But she also would have sat a few spaces apart from them, sipping slowly on a butterbeer while everyone else exchanged their stories and inside jokes.  
  
Friends or no friends...Helena knew was was really bothering her. She couldn't get Dumbledore's words from the other day out of her head.   
  
-What if he's right....- She thought, chewing on her lower lip. -What if all my goals and successes...all the hard work I've done....what if it's all been in the name of revenge?-  
  
She thought of the child that Voldemort had been, the child Dumbledore had spoken of....but Gods! it was impossible to think of that creature as having once been a child. She had always imagined him as having hatched full blown from the mouth of some hellfire--much like the goddess Venus had been born from forehead of Zeus, except in this case hate was the resulting emotion rather than love.   
  
For the last three days, she'd thought about her outburst--at first deeply ashamed, and then finally focusing on it with sharp analysis. She was smart enough, she ought have known that evil didn't stake its claim on a person from birth, but that the choices a person made set him or her on path of sorts, and that it was how one managed any roadblocks in that path that made up a person's character. All this time, she thought she'd been on a path that would lead her to justice...to great things. But now she wasn't so sure.   
  
She snorted outloud and tore up a chunk of soft turf, almost chucking it towards the throngs of wading first years, but managing to restrain herself at the last second. She'd always fancied herself a nice person, but figured it was time to come clean. -You're NOT always Miss Sunshine and Merryment...- she thought, feeling particuarly vicious and enjoying it for once, too. -....All your good deeds have been a silent plea for everyone to like you...because you know they can't forget the fact that your family is dead and your Uncle a murdering dark wizard...-. The truth was right there in her name: Black.  
  
That was something else Dumbledore had told her....the first thing Voldemort had done, once in power, was to change his name. "But changing a name doesn't make it not so..." he had added, in a way that had at first struck her as cryptic.  
  
Now, though, she thought she was beginning to understand.  
  
---  
  
Helena had made a decision. She was going to seek out Dumbledore for his advice, once and for all. She only prayed that he wouldn't hate her when she told him that she wasn't sure she was capable of leaving vengence behind her. -But I want to try...- she told herself firmly, and marched resolutely towards the statue that marked the headmaster's office. Getting inside would be no trouble, since as Head Girl she had the privledge of knowing his password year-round.   
  
"Licorice Whip" she announced, and the statue glided noiselessly aside, revealing the stairway that led to Dumbledore's quarters.   
  
But the old wizard's office seemed empty. A Phoenix gazed mournfully at her from his perch, looking quite worse for the wear, and a few previous headmasters eyed her curiously from the circular walls.  
  
"Looking for Albus, are you?" one asked politely. He had a pleasantly round face, flushed as if he'd been dipping into the whiskey-barrel.  
  
"Yes," she said, trying to look business-like. "Have you seen him?"  
  
"Sure have!" the man laughed with mirth. "The old goat's right behind you!"  
  
Helena whirled around, nearly stepping on the hem of her own robe, and looked straight into the ancient, lined face of her headmaster. She sighed with a touch of exasperation. The man delighted more in games that it did him good, she was sure.   
  
"I'm quite sorry, Miss Black," he said, as if reading her mind. "It's just a harmless trick Dippett and I like to play on students who are quite obviously in need of a heart-to-heart talk. I hope you'll forgive us."  
  
"This time," she said, smiling in spite of herself.  
  
"Since you're not at Hogsmeade eating your fill of sugar, I presume that you are, in fact, in need of that heart to heart. So let's have at it, shall we?" The headmaster became quite serious as he lowered himself into an armchair near the fireplace, and Helena didn't hesitate to sit herself across from him.  
  
"Professor," she began, trying quickly to sort out the best way to put her thoughts into words. "I've been thinking about our conversation over lunch a few days ago...."  
  
"Well!" he exclaimed, rubbing his beard. "I must confess I've gone over it a few times, as well. Even as Cornelius and I were doing business later that afternoon, I was thinking of you, and hoping that my words weren't too upsetting."  
  
"Not at all! In fact, our conversation made me realize a few things...like that I do think about revenge. All the time, in fact," she confessed, feeling a bright burst of shame. "And that I live my life the way I do for...protection."  
  
"Protection?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow. "Why do you feel you need protection?"  
  
"I don't know," she said helplessly. "Except that a big part of it is because of what my Unc--I mean, Sirius, did...murdering all those muggles. Getting thrown into Azkaban."   
  
Dumbledore appeared thoughtful, and she was a little taken aback when his next words seemed hard. Almost cold, in fact. "Helena, if you're worried that Sirius Black will escape Azkaban, I can assure you that there is no such possibility. Not with the type of security guards Fudge has appointed."  
  
Helena shook her head. "It's not that," she said. "The problem is that I'm a Black too. All my life, people have been afraid to get close to me...because they're worried I've got some of him in me. Or that I'm just plain nutters for thinking that Voldemort did Mum and Dad in." She looked into the fire as she spoke, too afraid to see the expression on Dumbledore's face. But he was quiet for so many minutes that she finally looked over, compelled to see what he was thinkin.  
  
He was uncharacteristically slumped in his chair, hands folded on his lap, not speaking. She shifted uncomfortably, almost wondering if she should leave, but then he finally spoke: "Helena, do you remember the important business I was meeting Fudge about when we last spoke?"  
  
She shrugged, confused. "Yes? You were going to talk about a student who is coming to Hogwarts next year."  
  
He looked at her warmly, which served only to befuddle her further. "How like you to remember!" he said. "But I don't think I ever told you who, in fact, that new student will be, and why the entire Ministry is having to plan carefully to prepare for his arrival."  
  
"No, you didn't." She wondered why Dumbledore was changing the subject. Was it possible that he was so disappointed in her, so disgusted by her confession that he'd decided to carry on with a whole new conversation?  
  
"Well, I can tell you that this student will, like you, be the subject of much attention when he arrives at Hogwarts. His name is known throughout the wizarding world, just as your own is. I imagine he will be quite overwhelmed and scared, too."  
  
Her mind swam momentarily, but then a few bits came into focus. "Not...not Harry Potter?" she murmured, then did a quick bit of math in her brain. Her own parents had died when she was seven. Then a few weeks later Voldemort was defeated by the Boy Who Lived, who was a year old at the time. That was nearly ten years ago, which would today make him....almost eleven.  
  
"Yes, Harry Potter indeed," Dumbledore clarified. And Helena was left to digest this on her own while he contined to sit in silence.   
  
"Professor, I'm afraid I don't see the connection," she said evenly. "Harry Potter is famous! He'll have adoration throughout the wizarding world once he resurfaces into the public's eye. How is that at all like being known as the last breathing relative of Sirius Black?"  
  
Dumbledore closed his eyes, looking as if he'd expected this from her. "The connection, Helena, isn't in the subject of fame. Think further than your own burden, and you'll soon see what I mean."  
  
Helena paused. Of course. The connection should have been obvious. Maybe it always had been secretly alive within her, but she'd never had the courage to say it outloud. She wasn't a Gryffindor, after all. "It's in our parents...they knew each other. And both were murdered by Voldemort."  
  
Dumbledore nodded, then added, "And each couple left behind a single, surviving child. Both of whom must bear the burden of notoriety, as well as the pain of having lost family in an unthinkable fashion."  
  
Helena's eyes filled with unexpected sorrow. "I know how he'll feel," she whispered, clutching at the folds of her robes. And she did. All the gawking he'd face..all the rumors and whispers. Not to mention the unshakeable underbelly of anger, the gnaw of knowing that the one who'd damaged his life still walked free somewhere.  
  
"I know you will," Dumbledore said. "And that's why Harry Potter will need you."   
  
Helena almost laughed, thinking that the headmaster was surely pulling her leg--trying to lighten the mood in the room, maybe. But the grave expression on his face suggested he was dead serious. And how! "But Professor, I'll be gone by the time Harry is here," she said. "I'm graduating tomorrow, remember?"  
  
"I assure you that my memory is still quite sound," he insisted, suddenly laughing. "What I mean when I say that "Harry Potter will need you' is that I hope you will indulge in this old fool's dunderheaded offer, one which I've been meaning to propose you with since our luncheon."  
  
She smiled, quite uncertain. "And what offer is that?"   
  
"That instead of joining the Ministry as an Auror, you'll join me, instead."  
  
Helena was astounded, and very nearly tipped her seat right over into the fire. Was Dumbledore offering her a teaching job here at Hogwarts? Or perhaps some pity position, like the ones he'd given to Hagrid and Filch?   
  
"Let me explain," he continued quickly, quite aware of her confusion. "Fudge and I do business quite often, Helena, but he and I do not always agree in matters of defense. He believes that Voldemort is dead, and that the dark arts are a thing of the past. I, on the other had, believe we must be more prepared now than ever. For I do not doubt, for even a moment, that Voldemort will rise again, stronger than he was before."  
  
Helena crossed her arms against her chest, head reeling. She'd never seen the headmaster with such a hard, determined expression, such a rigid undertone to his voice. She heard his words and believed them, through and through. "What...what do you want me to do?" she stammered, knowing at once that whatever it was, it wouldn't be easy.   
  
"When Harry enters Hogwart's, the wizarding world will be abuzz with word on the Boy Who Lived. I am certain that, wherever he is, the news will catch Voldemort's attention. I can protect him here at the castle, but with limited support from Fudge--and with so many other students to think about--I can only do so much. That is why I've decided I must train an Auror of my own, and place him or her into the Hogwart's student body...disguised as, of all things, an ordinary first year novice..."   
  
Dumbledore paused for a breath, and Helena briefly questioned the man's sanity. An Auror at Hogwarts? Working as the equivalent of a personal bodyguard? Was it possible that the return of Voldemort was THAT close at hand?   
  
Dumbledore didn't give her a chance to ask, but continued on, saying: "There was a special person I had in mind for the job, Helena. Someone very special indeed. But I'm afraid that he is still in Azkaban. Still presumed guilty by all of the wizarding world.   
  
Helena drew in a sharp breath, almost wanting to back quickly away from the headmaster she had so admired during her seven years as a student. Now she knew he MUST be crazy! "My uncle as Harry Potter's protector? You must be mad!" She couldn't help but voice her feelings outloud, even if it was terribly disrespectful--especially coming from her, Head Girl.   
  
"Quite right," he said calmly. "Mad to trust that the Ministry would do right by Black and let him appeal his case. There was nothing to connect Sirius to his crimes beyond circumstancial evidence, but the Ministry was thirsty for someone to blame, Helena...so thirsty."  
  
"You mean to tell me..." she leaned forward, a determined edge to her words. "..that my uncle is innocent?"  
  
He removed his tall, midnight-blue hat and brushed back his hair. "What I can tell you is only that the Sirius I knew was not a killer. I trusted him implicitly. And so did James and Lily Potter...enough to appoint Sirius as Harry Potter's godfather."  
  
Helena felt, for the second or third time that day, that her world had been flip-flopped entirely.   
  
"So you see..." he said, sounding quite rational. "You've lost your own parents--that and being the neice of Harry's godfather makes you kin. If not by blood, then by spirit."  
  
"But I don't even know him..." she said faintly, then trailed off.   
  
"You will, if you accept my offer." Dumbledore's voice was now as it had always been, warm and comforting. "Study as an Auror here at Hogwarts, and at the end of the summer, I'll give you a test--just so we both know you're 'up to snuff', to to speak. If you pass, the job is yours."  
  
Helena was doubtful. "Become an Auror, just like that?"  
  
Outrageous as it seemed, Dumbledore chuckled at this. "Certainly with all the research you've done on Aurorship, you know that it takes several years of field training before an Auror can earn his or her eye."   
  
"Yes, of course," she said automatically, almost as if she were being called on in class by McGonagall.  
  
"Then you can consider seven years of service to me--and to Harry Potter--as that field training. With summers off, of course."   
  
Seven years? Go through Hogwarts all over again, right after her own graduation? It seemed like utter, howlingly mad nonsense.   
  
"Professor," she began, trying to sound gracious. "I think that--"  
  
He raised a hand, cutting her off. "Please, Miss Black. Give me your decision after graduation exercises. I don't want you to accept before thinking the whole thing through."   
  
Helena left his office in a daze. Why had she come to see him in the first place? She couldn't seem to remember.   
  
---  
  
Helena didn't sleep well that night. But what was on her mind wasn't the extraordinary exchange she'd had with the headmaster earlier that day--a fact which surprised even her. Instead, her thoughts kept drifting back to a nightmare she'd often had as a child, especially on nights when she was moved to a new wizard family for foster care. She didn't have the dream now that she was older, but it had always been fresh and real to her, like a blister at the back of her brain...because she didn't think it was a dream at all, but a memory: stark and in full color, rich enough so that she could smell the earthy summer air of that night.   
  
In the memory she was seven, living with her parents in the house that she'd grown up in. It was the house that her father had grown up in too--a large, rambling farmhouse on the edge of a quiet village. She was full of summer energy, and even as her mother had led her to bed, longed to be outside catching fireflies. When she pinched their heads off, they still glowed--a little trick her father had taught her.   
  
Once tucked in bed, her seven-year old self waited several minutes before sneaking back down the long staircase. He parents were in the kitchen, murmuring to each other while drinking hot tea. Good. She crept to the porch and picked up the family cat, Ursula, zipping the unwilling creature into her hooded sweatshirt and making a dash for the garage. Like most wizards, the Black's had no car. Instead, the wall of the garage was lined with racing brooms--her father played chaser in a local league on weekends. Her own broom was tiny and barely rose from the ground--the wizarding world's version of training wheels. She scowled: it would never be fast enough to catch up with the fireflies.   
  
That's how she came to find herself on her father's shooting star, zooming around the chimney in a lopsided circle. She forgot all about the fireflies...just the act of flying was fabulous! Even Ursula, the cat, was peeking out as if enjoying the view. Helena drifted to the treetops, relishing the feeling of the wind on her face, wondering how high a broom could actually go. Could it go all the way into outerspace?  
  
Her flying was interrupted by a slamming door. She'd be caught! Not knowing what else to do, she swooped down and hid in large tree that faced the driveway; peering out through the foilage, she expected that at any minute her father would be marching across the lawn, ready to give her the worst scolding of her short life. She waited and watched. No one moved off the porch, but she could hear voices speaking from the roadside.   
  
"Sirius Black isn't here, Lord," she heard a man say. "This is the older Black's home."  
  
She moved a little further down the branch, trying to see who was talking. Then another man spoke, and she was alarmed to realize he was right beneath her!  
  
"He'll tell his brother we were here," the other man said. He had a strange, silky voice that made her want to hop back on the broom and fly far away. She craned her neck until she saw him, a tall wizard dressed in scarlet robes. He turned his head in her direction and she nearly shouted. She knew that man. She'd seen him in all the papers. He was the Dark Lord....the one that everyone was hiding from, the reason why her parents wouldn't let her out alone after dark.   
  
"I think we'll try a new curse this time," the Dark Lord said, and let out a laugh that gave her sharp goosebumps all over. Even Ursula squirmed free of the sweatshirt and ran up the length of the tree as if to escape it. "MOLTO WINDARO!" he bellowed, and a white light burst from the end of his light, so bright that Helena turned her face into the tree trunk, hiding her eyes in terror.   
  
And then the air was full of a horrible noise, like that of a giant drain being opened. The sucking noise grew until Helena could almost feel it pulling at her. She dared to turn her face back to the house and promptly let out a scream. Lightning crashed down in response, hitting the ground around her parents house at uneven intervals. Then, a giant, wedge-shaped funnel cloud formed over the entire building, and the house unravelled like a stack of popsicle sticks. She saw everything--stairs, beds, bits of broken, glittering glass--travel up the length of the vortex and then spit out the top again. It roared like nothing she'd ever heard in her life, so that even though she was wailing her throat raw, she was deaf to her own screams. Then, with a pop, it disappeared, leaving only obliterated ground in its wake.   
  
"MORSMODRE!"   
  
Right before her eyes, a giant skull exploded in a shower of green sparks, a snake in its mouth. It twinkled over the battered house and remained there, soundless. Helena let out a cry and dropped from the tree. Not caring if the Dark Lord got her...not caring if she broke her legs once she hit the ground, even.   
  
"GO AWAY!" she screamed at the depraved image, tears staining her cheeks. She hit her own face frantically, as if punishing herself for not knowing what to do, then dug through her jeans pockets until she found her wand--a standard, grade-school issue wand much smaller than her parents, but it was all she had.   
  
"GO!" she yelled again, pointing her wand at the skull. It hung there still, and she screamed at it for doing so. Then another word popped into the back of her mind. One she had heard used before. "REDUCTO!"  
  
Insanely, the skull seemed to only twinkle more, as if they were sharing a secret. At this, Helena felt her mind melt away, until it seemed to be only a pinpoint inside her. She felt herself calm, and at the same time, fill up with a kind of odd quiet. "Reducto!" she said again, still shouting though she could scarcely heard her own voice. And with that, the skull vanished, leaving no trace that it had been there at all. Helena noticed, vaguely, that it was raining and thundering for real now, and that she was slowly in the process of getting soaked as she stood there, surveying the remains of her home.   
  
She didn't know how long she stood there, but someone eventually found her. She told everyone who would listen that the Dark Lord had been there that night, that it was the Dark Lord who had caused the storm that destroyed the house. It did no good--without the Dark Mark, the Ministry chalked the event up to mere natural phenomena.  
  
-Because they didn't WANT to know it had been Voldemort- she thought, rolling over in bed. She was surprised that the realization didn't fill her with anger, or fear, for that matter. Instead, she felt oddly resolved.   
  
She had made up her mind. 


	5. If There Comes a Dark Horseman...

Author's Note. Special acknowledgement to "Hells", who pointed out that if Hermione is Helena, the previous 4 books don't quite support this possibility. Let me just say: I know. =) BUT, I'm hoping that as the character of Helena develops you'll see more believability in my theory. Until then, I hope suspense of disbelief is possible.   
  
As for my little theory of 'Hermione as the secret Hero of all the Harry Potter universe', reconsider it in light of a few facts about Hermione that just don't hold up if we're to believe she's actually just an ordinary witch (in my twisted opinion!). ;)   
  
(warning: quite spoilery and un-apologetically tounge in cheek)  
  
1) Hermione's practically forced attempts to befriend Henry in book one  
2) Hermione's unshakable belief in Severus Snape's innocence, despite all evidence otherwise  
3) The fact that she ALWAYS has the answers  
4) Once petrified in book two, she had that definition of "basalisk" in her hand, which you know just -reeks- of a setup!  
5) After said petrification, all those accusing Harry of being Slytherin's Heir suddenly shut their collective mouth. (Hmmm....)  
6) The time-turner in book three. That's powerful stuff! Why give it to a student just to do extra studies? Funny what a useful tool it turned out to be, too  
7) Hermione's knowledge of Lupin's lycanthropy before everyone else (Remember those shouts of "I trusted you!" at the shreiking shack? What firey passion! Surely that knowledge stemmed from something other than Snape's silly werewolf essay!)  
8) Dumbledore's instructions to save Sirius, which were directed at the one and only H.G.  
9) The fact she had to teach the dunderheaded Harry Potter practically EVERY spell and charm in the book before he could survive the Tri-Wizard tournament.   
10) Moody's comment to Hermione about how she ought to be an Auror (yeah, he said the same thing to Ron...just to make the goon feel better, though!)  
11) During Moody's demonstration of "Crucio", Hermione was visably concerned about Neville's respose, as if she knew the cause of it (And remember, the Longbottoms were....TA-DA! Aurors!)  
12) Hermione's creation of S.P.E.W., which....(hold on there, I'm getting ahead of myself! Yeah, even THAT little Hermione-ism will eventually be explained by yours truly.)   
  
Sure, Hermione made a few slip-ups in the beginning, but don't forget that (as chapter one indicates) the effects of that VesClotho can be a real bitch, too.   
  
Anyway, enough with the long ramblings. We're now back to the present-day Hogwarts, circa Potter and gang's 6th year. Please respond on the progress of the story!  
  
******************  
I own nothing! Nada! It's all J.K. Rowlings, etc, etc.  
  
Mine Protector  
Chapter 5: "No More Than This of Me"  
  
"There is a man of me that sows.  
There is a woman of me that reaps.  
One for good,  
And one for fair,  
And they cannot find me anywhere.  
Father and Mother, shadowy ancestry,  
Can you make no more than this of me?"  
  
-Laura (Riding) Jackson, "Mortal"  
  
  
Hermione had to find Dumbledore, and *fast*.   
  
But one quick survey of the school entrance told her that was going to be impossible. Throngs of students were gathered in the passage that led to the Great Hall, calling out to one another and taking their time to chat before heading to their house tables. She had no choice but to let herself be pushed along with the crowd like everyone else.   
  
Then she spotted both McGonagall and Dumbledore; they were greeting students at the entrance to the great hall, one on each side. Dumbledore was looking especially cheerfull in robes of royal purple, and he was offering animated "hellos!" to each passing student.   
  
That did it. She would have to do something drastic to get his attention. For now, though, she could only trundle along with the crowd--all of whom were taking far, far too long to get going, in her opinion. She worked her way to the edge of them a bit, so that she would be near Dumbledore's side when she met with the door.   
  
"Where you going, Hermione?" Ron called from her other side. She ignored him.   
  
Dumbledore saw her approach and looked at her expectantly, even while managing to say to others: "Welcome back Mr. Creevy.... My, looks like you've been out in the sun this summer, Miss Brown!"  
  
"Good to see you again, Professor," Hermione said, her voice a shade higher than the students who were buzzing around her. She used her two index fingers to swipe a deliberate path across her forehead, as if clearing away beads of sweat.   
  
"So very good to see you, Miss Granger", the old wizard said, his face pleasant, and Hermione was relieved when he used two fingers to innocently scratch at his temple.  
  
Once seated at Griffyndor table, everyone continued to gossip and speak casually, aware that it would be a while yet before the first-years arrived to be sorted. Before she could even be settled in her seat, though, Hermione was approached by Dumbledore, who swept in close and said, quietly, "Please see me in the west corridor right away, Miss Granger," then swooped away just as quickly.  
  
Harry looked faintly alarmed. "That sounded important, Herm. You're not in trouble, are you?"  
  
Ron snickered at his words, but Hermione only brushed a few raindrops from her coat, looking unworried. "I expect it's just some last minute prefect business he wants to pass on to me," she said, then rose up to leave and meet Dumbledore. "Fill me in on the sorting when I get back." And with that, she hurried away.   
  
She had to walk a long way down the empty west corridor before she met the headmaster. He was standing beneath a candlabra, near the tunnel that led to the dungeons. At her approaching figure, he spoke: "I received your signal in the hall. Has something happened?"  
  
She passed him the parchment wordlessly, and he read it aloud by the light of the candles. "I know you're not who you say you are...."   
  
God, hearing him say those words actually chilled her. But Dumbledore himself seemed only mildly concerned.   
  
"Where did you find this, Hermione?" The old wizard was perfectly capable of using her real name in private and her false name in public without ever having a slip-up, but sometime during Harry's second year she had asked him to not call her Helena anymore. It made it too difficult for her to keep her thoughts straight.  
  
"Coiled around a piece of my luggage," she answered, then explained, "I moved it to a different car when I boarded, so it happened to be out of my sight for several hours..." Finally, she let the worry she felt surface: "My duffle says 'Granger' on the side, Professor. The note had to be for me."  
  
Dumbledore fingered the parchment thoughfully. "Perhaps," he said. "But whoever wrote it seems to be fairly unsure as to what 'you are', exactly; as of now they seem to be voicing a mere suspicion."  
  
"I can't afford a suspicion," she said evenly. "Even if it is just from a student."  
  
"Still, the note doesn't appear threatening," he insisted. "I urge you to go on as planned, Hermione. But keep me posted if anything else of this nature shows up...no matter how small it seems."   
  
She nodded. It didn't seem that there was much more either could do, afterall. Dumbledore moved as if to head back to the entrance hall, but she put a hand on his arm to pause him. She had one more bone to pick with the man.  
  
"You should have told me Sirius would be here," she said, her voice lowered, but not quite accusitory.  
  
"I believe I sent you an owl at the end of the month, did I not?" But Hermione thought she saw a flicker of guilt in his eyes. He knew she was not pleased.   
  
"You know what I mean," she said simply. And what she did mean was that he should have discussed the matter with her on the very day the notion to approach Black for a teaching job had entered his mind. Having Sirius around would, on one hand, make her job easier--the man was sure to keep his eye on Harry's every move. But it didn't change the fact that seeing him would make it difficult for her to forget her own self and her past; and if someone out there really *did* suspect she wasn't what she seemed, she certainly couldn't afford to slip up now. She should have been told, been given more time to prepare.   
  
"I assure you I had little choice." He spoke in a tone that she had learned, over the years, not to question. "The signs are near, Hermione, and we must protect ourselves."  
  
She voiced her agreement softly, letting him know she understood. Her squeezed her shoulder briefly, then with a swirl of his robes turned and was marching back to the Great Hall, ready to give the first years their welcome.  
  
---  
  
Why oh why couldn't prefects have private rooms? Hermione wondered, certainly not for the first time, if she would be able to stand another year rooming with Lavender and Parvati. Prefects had 24-hour access to fancy private baths, and a study lounge that was stocked with gourmet food and drink round the clock, but only the Head Boy and Head Girl received private sleeping quarters. So she was once again stuck with Thing 1 and Thing 2, who were trading their silk nighties back and forth at the moment, trying to decide what to wear to bed. Parvati herself had just wriggled into a aqua, lace-trimmed camisole and matching boy-cut panties, and was pretending to check the fit of them before the full-length mirror, quite obviously pleased with her reflection. Lavender, on the other hand, was already perched on the edge of her bed in a little floaty pegnoir, spritzing perfume onto her pulse-points.   
  
Hermione made a great, rustley business of pulling a high-necked, scratchy flannel nightgown from her trunk, and, unable to resist, shook it out vigiorously--it smelled faintly of mothballs-- and yanked it over her head without a shred of grace.   
  
Lavender wrinkled her nose. "Hermione, won't you roast in that? It's still practically summer out!"   
  
Hermione begrundingly thought that she had a point, but made no move to change out of the nightgown. She didn't know if it was the VesClotho that made her feel sixteen and this stubborn, or if she was simply rebelling against the "It Girls" because she had, in her day, bowed and smiled for the approval of their type.   
  
Parvati had stoped looking at her reflection and searched out Hermione, who was on her bed in her nunnish-nightgown, busy sharpening quills. "Did you see Viktor Krum this summer, Mione?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral.   
  
Hermione paused, pen-knife still in hand. "Why do you ask?" she retorted, feeling not at all up for this kind of ridiculous talk.  
  
Lavender and Parvati exchanged knowing looks. "I guess that means you didn't," Lavender said, doing nothing to halt the triumphant smile that was forming on her face.  
  
"Sure I did," Hermione corrected, tossing her freshly-honed quills into a drawer. "Spent two weeks in July during which we shagged into next Tuesday," she added, sounding entirely unconcerned.   
  
Both Parvati's and Lavendar's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're kidding," Parvati finally said.   
  
Hermione's only reply was to pull her bed-curtains closed.   
  
---  
  
It shoudn't have bugged her, she knew. -What do those two twits know about sex, anyway?...- she mused, tugging the bed covers around her. Not that she herself was any expert. She had lost her virginity to Cy Jordan during the winter holidays of her seventh year, tipsy on eggnog and brandy-filled chocolates, but the years following that had been bone-clean of anything remotely resembling love *or* sheer indulgence.   
  
Of course, it was a little hard to convince dazzlers like Oliver Wood that you were really a sloe-eyed trollop once freed of your eleven-year-old-girl disguise. And now that she was technically older than all of the Hogwart's student body, it was hard to find even the seventh-years sexy. She had lucked out a little with Krum, who had been eighteen when her true age had been nearly twenty-one (though he'd thought her only fourteen at the time, which made him seem just a tiny bit pervish). And it was true that she *had* shagged him into next Tuesday--but that had been over a year ago when she'd visited him in Romania. For a solid week they'd stayed up in the tower room of his family's old manor, and Krum, though younger, had taught her more than a thing or two (no doubt due to years of practice with Quidditch groupies). He had possessed enormous and careful hands, and his gaze was dark and penetrating enough to make her feel as if her insides had shriveled. In a good way, of course.   
  
But at the end of that wonderful, steamy week, she decided that having a relationship with such a high-profile individual wasn't possible. Her duty to Dumbledore and the circle came first, and being a close friend of Harry's made her visible enough as it was (she recalled, in horror, the batch of howlers that she'd received after Rita Skeeter had written that news-story about her). When she had broken it off with Krum, she had bowed her head shyly and told him that the age difference in them was too great for her to feel comfortable in a serious relationship. He had seemed geniunely hurt, holding her to his chest in his wide embrace that lasted several minutes before agreeing to say goodbye. She had felt bad, too, but had told the truth about the age difference.   
  
He might have known more about sex, but in every other concern, she had felt almost twenty years older.   
  
-If you carry on like this much longer, you'll never be able to connect with another human being again...- a little voice in her mind said, and she pushed it away. "Just because I didn't love Krum back doesn't mean I'm incapable of connection with another person!- she argued, feeling as she often did--as if she were the referree between two people who were bent on destroying each other: Helena and Hemione.   
  
Besides, she'd had a lot on her mind when she visited Krum.   
  
Voldemort had just risen, creating havoc in the ministry. She had failed to protect Harry Potter from harm's way, even though the answers had been right under her nose the entire time. And Cedric Diggory was dead.  
  
-I came so close- she thought, and eyes stung over involuntarily.  
  
After the night of Ireland's victory at the World Quidditch Cup, she'd seen the dark mark burst into the sky for the first time since her parents murder. Harry and Ron had been confused that she'd known what the mark meant (she told them she'd read of it in a book--one of the handiest things about being Hermione Granger was that she could have all the answers and blame them on undeniable bookishness), but they knew enough to realize that the skull wasn't pleasant.   
  
Weeks later, when she spotted Bartimus Crouch's house-elf tending the Gryffindor fire, she'd been instantly suspicious. Why would the same elf accused of creating the dark mark be suddenly employed at Hogwarts? In her quest to search into Crouch's past, she had even created S.P.E.W., which gave her a good excuse to visit the kitchens often. All of the questioning she had put Winky through had done her little good--the elf was loyal to a tee. So loyal, in fact, that Hermione became certain that Crouch must have had plenty to hide.  
  
She became convinced that Bartimus Crouch was behind it all: Harry's name being drawn from the Goblet of Fire, the dark mark, the re-surfacing of the death-eaters...everything.   
  
If only she had known that Crouch's death-eater son was still alive. If only *any* of them had known....  
  
Every day, she wondered if there wasn't something she could have done. Something she had overlooked that might have eventually led her to the right set of answers. She had these same thoughts now, and soon fell into a thin and troubled sleep.  
  
---  
  
The next morning at breakfast the Gryffindor table was uncharacteristically quiet. At the feast last night they had expected to learn the identity of the new Dark Arts teacher, but Dumbledore had told them that the new instructor was away on business and wouldn't arrive until the next morning. The whole of Hogwart's had groaned collectively in dissapointment, but were now unable to concentrate on the platters of eggs and waffles before them, too busy speculating amongst themselves. Harry himself could only think of one person arrogant enough to skip out on the opening feast, and was unhappily imagining the return of Gilderoy Lockheart--with his memory restored, no less.   
  
Only Hermione remained uninterested in their conversation, preferring instead her usual first-day-of-classes breakfast tradition: Reading.   
  
While pretending to listen to Ron go on about the possibility of Lupin's return, Harry watched her from the corner of his gaze. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and already a few tendrils had escaped over her forehead. She kept puffing upwards to get them clear of her eyes--a gesture Harry found mesmerizing.   
  
Harry had never had feelings for Hermione in the way that Ron had; she'd always seemed to big-sisterly to view as a 'real' girl. But lately, he thought he was getting the hang of why Ron liked her so much. She was, for one, perfectly unpredictable. For instance, the whole House had been surprised when Hermione had tried out for the Quidditch team last spring. They had admired her efforts, but just assumed she was doing it out of sympathy for Ron and Harry who, as keeper and Captain/seeker, would have a hell of a time losing the two Weasley beaters at once. To their complete and utter shock, Hermione had been *good*.   
  
Using a Nimbus 2002, which she had received that Christmas (only half-heartedly at the time, though Ron had drooled over it), she'd swooped circles around the competition. And if her flying was good, then her beating skills could be described as...well, nothing less that excellent. In fact, Ron had probably said it best when, upon having his collarbone cracked by her perfectly-aimed shot, he shouted (half in pain, half in joy) "Fan-fucking-tablous!" The girl had an aim that made her seem eagle-eyed, and could hit with as much strength as either of the Weasley twins. That had been another one of the surprises; even though Gryffindor had always had a good mix of genders on their Quidditch team, beaters had always been male. Females tended to make better flyers, and therefore better chasers and seekers. Hermione could fly with the best of them, and even though they desperately needed to fill in positions for chaser, too, Harry had seen beater written all over that strong arm of hers. Watching her prowl the sky with that club in her hand, an easy grin on her face, had given him a sort of tingle in his stomach (though arguably, any girl brandishing a club between her hands might have ilicited the same subliminal effect). He was reminded a bit of Cho Chang, who had unfortunatly quit Quidditch after Cedric's death.   
  
"What is it, Harry? Do I have oatmeal on my face or something?" Hermione's voice interuppted his dreamy thoughts. She rubbed at her mouth and nose experimentally, and he was jolted back to earth with a thud.   
  
He was further brought to attention by Dumbledore, who had risen up in his seat and was smiling politely, waiting for everyone to settle down so he could make that morning's announcements. "By my watch..." he began, and everyone promptly shut up. "...our new Dark Arts professor will be arriving any minute now. But before he enters, I'd like to offer a word of explicit warning."   
  
Harry and Ron exchanged glances. So maybe it was Lupin, after all.   
  
"Our new professor is a bit..notorious. He has been accused of crimes in the past, and even though his good name was cleared last year, he is--quite unfortunately--still associated with Voldemort in the minds of many wizards."  
  
Harry gulped. It sounded like....but no, it couldn't be. A swarm of murmuring fanned out around him, and he knew that the rest of the students were thinking the same thing.  
  
"I can assure you, however, that your new Dark Arts instructor is a man that I would trust with my own life," Dumbledore continued, holding up his hands to ward off the buzzing going on at the tables. "Additionally, he has spent much of the past years defending himself and his loved ones against that dark forces." And with that, Dumbledore gave Harry a very pointed look. Harry jumped involuntarily. Could it be true?  
  
Quite suddenly, the Great Hall doors swung open, sending a rush of hot wind into the dining room. By this time everyone had put two and two together, but that didn't stop them from gasping at the sight of Sirius Black.   
  
---  
  
Rather than gasping, Hermione sighed. It was worse than when the imposter Moody had lurched in on his wooden leg, his blue Auror's eye wheeling about in his skull. Heads everywhere were craning to get a better look, and Snape was up front turning a slow shade of vermillion.   
  
She had to admit, though, that Sirius cut an impressive figure as he entered the room, a block of blazing sunlight at his back. He had a pair of vintage motorcycle goggles pushed up over his forehead, keeping his rather shaggy black hair out of his face, which was already dark with stubble. He was tall and trim, and rather than wearing robes, was dressed sharply in light grey trousers and a black, rather snug-fitting knit shirt. A battered, floor-skimming leather trench coat completed the ensemble. He looked, all in all, nothing like a wizard, let alone a professor. On the other hand, he also looked nothing like the starved mad-man he'd been after escaping Azkaban. Judging from the hushed exclamations around her, it was the latter image that everyone had been expecting.   
  
"Sirius!" Harry breathed, his eyes absolutely alight.   
  
-He thinks he's just gotten the family he's always wanted...- Hermione realized, and despite her own frayed nerves at the prospect of facing Black, she felt quite suddenly warm and glad for Harry. Thoughts of Sirius were what had finally given Harry enough hope to conjure a powerful Patronus, after all.   
  
Meanwhile, Sirius was making his way up to Dumbledore's table, his leather coat billowing behind him dramatically. Once up front, he turned to face the student body. "My name is Sirius Black, and I am pleased to be your new teacher," he said simply. "I hope we will have a productive year together." He seemed, aside from his tough-guy image, quite gracious. Even humble, at that. He sat and passed McGonagall a platter of crepes, and she looked absolutely taken with him, fidgiting and even--could it be?--batting her eyelashes a bit.  
  
Hermione narrowed her own eyes in response. She didn't trust him.   
  
************************  
  
One more note: I know there are people reading this! Do I have to get on my knees and beg for your attention? C'mon and respond! Puhlease? Comments, concerns, questions? I'll take anything! Really! 


	6. X Marks the Spot

Thanks to those who responded to chapter 5: To those waiting for the "sweet lovins": you'll get a -hint- of that in this chapter...and lots more later, though maybe not what you're expecting!   
  
Once again, I own not one iota of the J.K. Rowling Universe.  
  
Mine Protector  
Chapter 6: X Marks the Spot  
  
"I've seen the girl who picks up where I leave off  
She's picking her fights like she knows how to win them.  
And I've seen her sorting through my memories  
What's sweet? What's bitter?  
She wants what I can't give her..."  
  
-Rainer Maria (the band, not the poet: I listened to them while writing =] ), "Better Version of Me"   
  
  
  
By the time she walked into the potions classroom, Hermione was already mentally exhausted. She'd had Arithmancy for her first class, and had skipped lunch in the Great Hall, wanting instead to avoid her friends and all the hub-bub surrounding Sirius' arrival. Things hadn't been much better in the Prefect's lounge, though. She spent nearly an hour nibbling disinterestedly at some chicken parmarosa while Draco Malfoy and Soukie Rappell, the Slytherin prefects, had smirked over at her from an adjacent corner. Soukie was busy copying Malfoy's history notes while Malfoy himself shuffled a deck of cards over and over again, not moving his eyes off Hermione even once. Vaguely, Hermione toyed with the notion of Malfoy as the possible note-sender.   
  
"Hurry up and finish your lunch, Mudblood," he piped up, quite suddenly. "I won't be able to stomach my own until you get out of here."   
  
-No, impossible...- she decided. Subtlety just wasn't his style.   
  
She didn't meet up with Ron and Harry again until double-potions after lunch. As she expected, they were prattling on about Sirius' arrival, full-force.  
  
"Herm, I'm worried," Harry said, leaning in close. "This morning professor Trelawny predicated that Sirius would face great danger at the school."  
  
"Harry, you've never listened to what that old bat has said before...why on earth would you listen now?" Hermione struggled to maintain a rational tone, but Harry looked unconvinced. When Snape finally entered the dungeon, dampening the students' dialogue to mere whispers, she was actually glad to see him.  
  
-Not that you ever really *mind* seeing him....- her subconscious whispered, and she felt her cheeks go warm. Oh, she knew Snape was unbearable...he had been that way during her own years at Hogwarts, even going so far as to once blame a failed Merrywigge potion on "inferior ancestry"--his own special way of reminding the rest of the class that she was, of course, a member of the infamous Black family.   
  
But, facts were facts, and ever since that summer she had spent in Romania, Hermione had been unable to ignore Snape's superficial resemblance to Viktor Krum. Though both somewhat unconventionally handsome, they shared sharp, angular features, including similar deep-set, glittering eyes, and despite Snape's being much taller and more poised than Krum, she always felt a little fluttering pulse of anticipation run down her spine when he swept his way around the room in that arrogant strut of his.   
  
Thus, she had a habit of promptly quieting down upon his entrance into the classroom; Harry and Ron assumed it was out of fear--the same kind that caused Neville to tremble so forcefully that his stool's uneven legs began to jitter beneath him. But in truth, Hermione feared Snape the least of anyone; Dumbledore had assured her several times of Snape's alligence to the circle, and since she had no reason to question Dumbledore's intentions--strange as they might sometimes seem--she had to trust that Snape's unpleasant demenor was, in part, a facade similar to her own. In fact, as a way of testing the authenticity of Snape's snippiness, she had last year begun to actually talk back to him whenever he insulted one of her fellow Gryffindors. The trick in it was that instead of mouthing off in an angry, impudent fashion, she kept her voice even and steady--even polite and loaded up with respect, to a certain degree. Snape hardly ever took points from Gryffindor when she braved such retorts, as if he were too uncertain of her intentions to do so. With that chipper gloss to her tone of voice, she suspected he was never fully certain as to whether she had purposefully insulted him or not.  
  
Today, however, Hermione thought she might just stay quiet. The look on Snape's face was *murderous*, and she didn't doubt him for one moment when he put his hands on his hips and announced, voice booming:   
  
"If I hear the name 'Sirius Black' from any of you today, I will deduct fifty points from your house. No questions asked."  
  
---  
  
Severus Snape was in a sour mood, and that was putting it mildly. Upon surveying the classroom, he was at least pleased to see that most of the students were taking his threat seriously. The Slytherins looked quite content with their command to not mention Sirius by name--with the possible exception of Malfoy, who clearly had hoped to get in a few digs against the man in Snape's presence. But even if it were attached to a snide comment, Snape was in no mood to hear any mention of Black. The Gryffindors looked quite resentful of this fact, and Harry Potter, in particular, was scowling in Snape's direction, his brow tight and pinched behind his glasses. His friend Weasley looked irritated as well, but was at least trying to hide it by rifling through his bookbag and sorting through scraps of partchment. Snape couldn't help but be somewhat satisfied with both boys' reactions. -Just look at Potter, wishing he could blast the 'Crucio' curse on me at this very moment...- he thought with some level of bitter amusement. -All the times I've saved that drated boys life...and there he sits, not at all grateful.-   
  
The Granger girl, on the other hand, was staring at Snape curiously, a small half-smile twitching on her face. Snape shifted uncomfortably and felt a bit of his authoritative presence wither away. Why did he get the feeling that the girl had cottoned on to the fact that much of his griping and bellowing was, in effect, only meant to keep Potter in line and out of danger? Not only that, but that gaze of hers was so searching...so *adult*...that it made Snape want to leave the room. At times, the expression in her hazel-gray eyes even bordered on that of admiration, and those moments were particularly unbearble.   
  
Ironically enough, the only other person to look at him with something close to admiration had possessed green eyes that were an exact match to Harry Potter's.  
  
Severus knew that Harry had been constantly reminded of his remarkable resemblance to James Potter; both Lupin and Black had marveled at the similarities between then, and Dumbledore had even mentioned the likeness on a few occassions--Lord knows it had done the younger Potter's ego little good. Yet if Harry Potter had only been a replica of his father, Snape would have been able to handle him just fine--with feint intimidation and grand-standing, along with a very real dose of cynicism--just as he handled all other Hogwarts students. But James had been easy going--quick to laugh away his problems and approach life with an even-keeled diplomacy. Harry, on the other hand, had spitfire and fight in his very bones; it was written all over that determined chin of his. And that feistiness wasn't a component of James, but of Lily--through and through.   
  
Trying to shake the distraction from his mind, Snape ordered the class to pair off, putting Malfoy and Potter together, as usual. While the class busied themselves with moving about, he overheard Ron say something about missing Fleur Delacour. Harry shrugged in reply, but mouthed--and even from Snape's position, there was no mistaking this-- "at least we have Sirius".  
  
"That's fifty points from Gryffindor, Potter!" Snape proclaimed loudly, a note of triumph entering his voice.   
  
"What!?" Harry dropped his supplies in shock. "I didn't even SAY anything!"   
  
Snape smiled deviously. "Mr. Potter, I am not blind. I know that you just said the word 'Sirius' to Mr. Weasley."   
  
Harry's mouth dropped open in indignation, as did Ron's. "But you didn't hear me!" he retorted scathingly. "I know you didn't! And while you're at it, why don't you just order me to not THINK of Sirius Black's name?"  
  
Snape reared back a little--there was that fire again, and along with it a potent bit of bittersweetness. He always got a little thrill when reminded of Lily--whom he had been very fond of--but seeing those characteristics reflected in Harry only made Snape hate James more. And Severus knew there was little use in hating the dead; or pining over them, for that matter. He prepared himself to threaten Potter with another fifty point deduction, but before he could open his mouth, the obnoxious Granger girl opened hers first.  
  
"Why is this name issue so important, Professor? You were in the same class with Sirius Black, weren't you?" Snape looked at her in astonishment. "Aren't you happy to see an old school-chum?" she added, quite wide-eyed and innocent.   
  
Snape struggled to collect himself. Who did the Granger imp think she was? He shot her a withering look, and was unnerved when she only shrugged slightly in response, her fingers casually scratching her collarbone, which was just visible beneath the neckline of her robe. Why was it that during these exchanges, he had the distinct feeling that she was lightly scolding him--as if he were a child being naughty?  
  
"Take you seat, Potter," he said through his teeth. He instructed the class to begin cataloging their potion vials, and after ten minutes of their working in silence, he deliberatly made his way to Hermione's seat. She seemed vaguely aware of his approach, but didn't look up; instead, she turned a vial upside down in her hand, making a brief notation with her quill.   
  
"Miss Granger," he hissed, towering over her. She glanced up in response, and for a moment he was alarmed by the fact that he was actually breathing in her clean soap-and-water scent. Her rich, burnished hair was parted unevenly--a detail that made her seem lovely in a botchy, untended way that caused a twitch deep in his groin. He pushed the sensation away by deepening his scowl, but not before briefly wondering why Hermione Granger, of all people, had caused his innards to stir for the first time in years.   
  
"I will take no moralizing from you," he finally said, straighening up. "And by the way....ten points from Gryffindor."  
  
---  
  
Harry couldn't help but whistle a bit as he made his way out of the dungeons. Ron was straggling along next to him, having fun re-creating the strangled expression that had taken over Snape's face when Sirius had entered the great hall.   
  
-Sirius is here...- Harry thought, still quite in disbelief. -Sirius is HERE!- Only one thing was bothering him; Sirius hadn't stopped to greet him personally at breakfast. He had seemed rather busy, though, and the only greeting he had given to any students at all was the tiny salute he'd flashed when he left to his quarters after breakfast. Head suddenly spinning, Harry tried to remember the last time he had even heard from his Godfather.   
  
When Wormtail had been captured by Aurors last spring, he had been discovered quite on the verge of madness. He had been yammering on and on about his mission as the "Dark Lord's Hand", and claimed that his own hand forced him to do atrocious things in the name of Voldemort.  
  
Of course, Harry had remembered that hand. It had been a little gift to Wormtail from the Dark Lord himself. -A little thank you for helping an old friend rise from the Dark Side...- he recalled cynically, biting his lower lip thought.  
  
Pettigrew had confessed his entire life of crime to the Ministry, saying he would tell them anything they wanted as long as they kept Voldemort away from him--even if that meant having to live at Azkaban with the dementors. In reponse, Sirius' case was officially re-tried, and then promptly thrown out for insufficient evidence. Harry's Godfather, who had been running from the Ministry for over two years, was finally a free man.   
  
Not only that, but *Harry* was free. Or so he had thought. As soon as he caught wind of Sirius' appeal, he began imagining a summer without the Dursley's--one in which he and Sirius practiced Quidditch in a hay field and had outdoor cookouts to which Ron and Hermione would be invited. Maybe even a trip to the shore, too.  
  
But it hadn't worked that way. After Harry sent Sirius an owl detailing his own hopes at finally escaping Privet Drive, Sirius had responded with a letter of his own: "I'm so sorry Harry," it had said. "But before I can even think to provide a proper home for you, I have to build one for myself. There are people out there who will still think of me as a monster, and you deserve more than that...."  
  
At the time, Harry had ripped the letter to shreds, feeling, for the very first time, a true, blazing anger towards his Godfather. He deserved more, did he? And yet the Dursley's were the "more" that he was stuck with!  
  
Now, though, Harry recognized that Sirius' letter must have been a diversionary tactic. He had to have plenty of time to prepare to re-enter society, and what better way to do that than teach at Hogwarts? If Dumbledore approved of Sirius, then the minds of those who still feared him might soon be put at ease. For now, Harry decided it was best not to tell anyone that the new Dark Arts professor was actually his very own Godfather.  
  
"Hey, you haven't said a thing since potions," Ron said, looking at him curiously.   
  
Harry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his robes, and replied not with words, but with an over-sized grin.   
  
---  
  
By late afternoon, most students were dreading their last classes of the day. Some tried to skip out by hiding out in the bathrooms or sneaking back to the dorms (and were often caught by Filch in the process), but this wasn't the case with the fifth and sixth year Gryffindors, who--despite their initial nervousness over Sirius Black's arrival--couldn't wait to see how their new Defense Against Dark Arts instructor would chalk out.  
  
Harry hadn't seen the class this excited for a new instructor since Mad-Eye Moody, and in that case, the excitement had been for the same reason they were wound up about Sirius--both men were utterly infamous.  
  
Of course in the case of Mad-Eye Moody, there had been more to it than that.   
  
Hermione quickly surveyed the Dark Arts classroom; unlike potions, there was a rousing, tense silence amongst all the students. Feeling as if she stood out, she tried hard to put some spirit into what she was sure was a less-than-thrilled facial expression. When Sirius finally opened the door to the classroom, all heads turned in his direction, and almost fifty sets of eyes widened to the size of dragon eggs. Hermione was positive he would do something dramatic like fly through the doorway on his broom, or perhaps transform into Padfoot and tear a chicken apart with his teeth. But she was wrong--he merely walked through the aisle to the front of the room, shuffling over some papers silently, his head down. The wildest move he made was flash a quick, barely-noticable wink towards the table where she, Harry, and Ron were seated.  
  
He still had on the rebel without a cause leather coat, though.  
  
"So, these are the Gryffindors," he began, then looked up over his paperwork. "I trust you're all here, then?"  
  
The entire room stared back, hushed as door-mice.  
  
Black only smiled, indifferent, and brushed his shaggy hair off his forehead. "A few things about me as a teacher, then," he announced. "I am rather inexperienced in the actual act in instructing defense against the dark arts, I admit...but as most of you know, I am quite good at escaping sticky situations--whether that means running from dementors or dodging our own Cornelius Fudge."   
  
At this, a few students tittered, finally relaxing a bit.   
  
He contiuned: "From what Dumbledore tells me, you've had a variety of Dark Arts professors over the years, and have learned different things from each. Would any of you care to fill me in on the progress you've made up until now?"  
  
Slowly, one by one, hands begin to flag up. Sirius looked pleased. "You there, Mister Weasley..." he said, pointing in Ron's direction.  
  
"Last teacher we had was Snape, sir," Ron said, his ears turning quite red. "He mostly instructed us on the history of defense."   
  
"Ah, I see," Sirius said, looking a bit disappointed. "No practical lessons, then?"  
  
"Not from Snape," Neville chimed in--which was extraodinarly brave, for him. "But Professor Moody showed us the unforgivable curses."  
  
At this, Sirius' eyes darkened dramatically, and Neville looked quite sorry that he'd spoken at all. "Right," Black said, his voice stiff. "Moody."  
  
Hermione and Harry exchanged a look: they assumed that they--including Ron--were the only Hogwart's students aware of the fact that Mad-Eye Moody had been a charlatan, and one hell-bent on delivering Harry to the hands of Voldemort himself. The rest of the student body took it on good faith that Moody had simply fulfilled his one-year tenure and had then left Hogwarts behind.   
  
Hermione decided she had better pipe up: "There was Professor Lupin, sir," she said brightly. "He introduced us to dangerous creatures such as grindylows, boggarts--"  
  
"And werewolves!" Ron added, which promptly earned him swift kicks from either side.  
  
Sirius looked slightly amused. "It sounds like you've had quite a wide variety of lessons," he said, then lowered his voice slightly, sounding more serious. "But it seems as if much of your learning has been based on defending yourselves against creatures and curses, am I right?" Most of the class shrugged half-heartedly, and he continued: "My knowledge of creatures and curses is fair, but limited. Yet what I can teach you has little to do with either." He paused and looked at each Gryffindor face carefully. "Do any of you catch my meaning?"  
  
The class was once again silent. Only Hermione, after some reservation, finally raised her hand.  
  
Sirius looked relieved. "Yes, Miss Granger?"  
  
"People," she said simply, and she could sense that Pavarti and Lavender were snickering in the corner, clearly thinking she'd gone 'round the corner. "You want to teach us to defend ourselves against people."  
  
"That's right," he said, looking gratified. "Five points to Gryffindor." He put his paperwork down on a nearby desk and began meandering around the room, taking plenty of time before he spoke again. "It's easy to know when a curse or a creature are dangerous--in most cases, the danger level is immediately perceptable. In the case of people, however..." he paused to give Parvati and Lavender a penetrating stare. "...you can't always tell who is trustworthy."   
  
"Wormtail..." Harry muttered, and Hermione nodded slightly.  
  
"To demonstrate, I would like for us to play a little game," Sirius said, finally centering himself in the middle of the room. Everyone looked at him expectantly, not quite sure where he was taking them, but quite curious to find out. "Lets pretend, for a moment, than I am Voldemort..."  
A few people gasped at this his carefree use of you-know-who's name, and Sirius waited for the words to sink in before continuing: "I have the power to make people do my bidding, to put the dark mark on them..." he held up a rubber stamp in the shape of an X. "But I could be anywhere, and so could my followers. How do you know who to trust?"  
  
The reaction he got was nothing less that dumbfoundedness. Slowly, Sirius explained that he wanted them to sit with their eyes closed--head down and palms out--absolutely no peeking allowed. "I am going to put the stamp in somebody's hand," he said, "and that person will act as the Dark Lord. Then we will walk around the room and shake hands with each other, very pleasantly, and the person who is Voldemort will be amongst us, marking those who he comes into contact with. Once five minutes have passed, we will see how many of you are marked, and which of you has hashed out who the Dark Lord is."   
  
There was a surge of excitement in the classroom after his words; while most students weren't too keen on playing "pin the X on the death-eater", they did however like Black's rather unconventional approach to lessons. Therefore they sat quite obediently, eyes hidden and palms out, while listening to Black make his way around the room, preparing some unfortunate student for the role of the you-know-who. Soon enough, they were all sauntering around the room and shaking hands, and having quite a lot of fun while they were at it. Ron himself bolted over to Sirius immediately, his hand outstretched eagerly. Hermione, on the other hand, took her time--she prowled along the edges of the classroom slowly, stopping once to shake the hands of a bored-looking Parvati and Lavender. Most were laughing and enjoying themselves, but soon the five minutes were up and they were back in their seats, now all quite anxious to see which one of them had been playing the role of the Dark Lord.  
  
"It was definitly Weasley!" Seamus shouted. "I saw him practically wrestle to make his way around the entire room!"  
  
"It was not," Ginny said hotly. "It was Colin Creevy!"  
  
"Quiet, quiet..." Sirius said, hushing them with a wave of his hand. "Now lets see...will those of you who have been marked raise your hands?"   
  
At least ten Gryffindors did so, and most of those who didn't gasped in surprise, amazed that the mark had spread so fast amongst them.   
  
"So...for those of you who are still unmarked--any ideas on who our Dark Lord is?"  
  
No one spoke. Both Ron and Colin had been marked, after all.   
  
Hermione hesitated to speak up, but finally could stand the silence no longer. Without raising her hand, she said: "I think it was you, professor."  
  
Several students looked at her in alarm, amazed that she would say such a thing, but Sirius only grinned in pleasure. "And what makes you think I am the culprit?"  
  
She stalled again, but then decided to answer truthfully; she had, after all, been around Black enough times to know that he would recognize any sort of affected ignorance from her. "It was in your body language, sir."   
  
Sirius' eyes brightened. "How so?" he prompted.   
  
"You were walking on the fringes of the circle, approaching no one. You waited for people to come to you."   
  
"Excellent observation, Miss Granger. Five more points to your house." Then he turned to the rest of the class and held out his palm, revealing the stamp had been hidden there. "As you can see," he said, "evil sometimes waits patiently for followers to arrive on their own. I am impressed by your deductive skills, Miss Granger, but may I ask you a question before we continue?"  
  
Hermione started in her chair, feeling quite suddenly nervous. Had she made a mistake in speaking up, drawing attention to herself? "Go ahead," she said finally. She doubted it would do little good to say no now.  
  
"I find it interesting that you noticed me waiting on the edges of the circle. I don't know if you were aware of it, but you too were walking the perimeter of the room...all by yourself."  
  
---  
  
The Hogwarts owlery was located in an abandoned tower at the far end of the castle. It could only be reached through a single door, which looked tiny when compared to the tall stone walls and enormous, cathedral-arched openings that encircled the room. In the criss-crossed rafters above, owls of all shapes and sizes were snoozing quietly in the late-evening sunlight, their beaks tucked under their wings. The air smelled faintly of hay and feathers.   
  
The owlery was where Hermione liked to escape. Being an area that was rarely intruded upon by other students, she could assure herself relative quiet here--especially during the hours just before dinner. Usually, she just picked a patch of floor and spent a half hour or so meditating, always careful to not sit directly under any owls. She also found that it was helpful to have a few 'time outs' during the day in which she could be free from the eyes of staff and students, and the owlery was the prefect place for such retreats.   
  
It was the end of the first week of classes, and Hermione was on the floor of the owlery with her legs crossed beneath her. She had removed her robes and was dressed in a black box-pleated skirt and white button-down shirt, both slightly wrinkled. She didn't know why, but every year it seemed harder and harder to slip into the role of Hermione Granger. It seemed only to reason that the task would become easier in time, so she figured that the real problem was simply this: she was getting tired of the charade.   
  
She shouldn't have based her personality so much on that Ravenclaw girl she had been six years ago. She should have made her daring or flirtatious, instead of a chronic bookworm. But old habits were hard to break, she guessed.   
  
As if reading her mind, Hedwig floated down from the ceiling and settled on Hermione's shoulder, nuzzling her cheek gently.   
  
"Hi dear," she said, holding out a crust of bread that she'd stowed in her pocket just for this occasion. The snowy owl nibbled at it daintly, sitting still so that Hermione could stroke her fluffy neck, repeating the same motion until it became soothing, like a wave that washed rhythmically over sand, and left the shoreline slightly eroded each time.  
  
"Hello Hermione," a male voice said, startling her out of her reverie. She looked up to see Sirius Black in the doorway; he had that same black leather coat on (she was beginning to wonder if he simply preferred it to regular wizarding robes), and had what looked like a cloth-bound journal in his grasp.  
  
"Hi Professor," she replied, and Hedwig rocked on her shoulder once, then took off back into the rafters.   
  
He gave her a funny look. "You can call me Sirius outside of class, you know," he said.  
  
She shrugged non-committedly. "That doesn't seem right."   
  
He look uncomfortable, then finally sat down next to her, spreading his hands against on his knees. Hermione tensed involuntarily at this, but hoped he hadn't noticed. "When I was at Hogwart's I used to come out here to write in my journal," he admitted after a moment, sounding wistful. "I thought I might take up the practice again, now that I'm back." He turned his head and to study her, and the proximety of his face caused her to break out in a thin film of sweat. "I didn't know I'd have company..."  
  
Hermione stiffened a bit. "I don't come out here a lot," she lied. "I just wanted to write Mum about the first week of classes."   
  
He looked amused. "Sure. And that's why you're sitting on the ground with feathers in your hair."  
  
Hermione said nothing, uncertain. How was she supposed to react to his words? Honestly, she hadn't expected him to be such a frank, expressive individual. Why couldn't he be moody and introspective like all the other men with rock-star good looks? Then she could have at least counted on him to prefer the solitude of his own quarters to the smelly old owlery.   
  
"I can't help but feel I've upset you somehow," he went on, and she felt compelled to swivvel her head and meet his gaze, even though she really, really didn't want to. "You've been quite standoffish towards me all week."   
  
She tried to look surprised. "I have?"  
  
He sighed. "You know you have. And I suspect it's been intentional, though I have no idea what I could have done to irritate you."   
  
He was right, of course. Ever since that first Dark Arts class, she had remained quiet around him, barely muttering half-hearted answers even when called on. And whenever Harry and Ron tried to drag her to Sirius' office for afternoon tea she declined, insisting that she had an Arithmancy quiz to study for.   
  
"I thought we were friends, Hermione," he said softly, in a way that made her chest feel miserable and hollow. His eyes were glossy and pleading with her to understand, to befriend him. She had never seen anything like it in her life.   
  
"I am your friend," she said evenly.   
  
He waited for more, and when she offered nothing he rose to his feet again, brushing dirt from the backs of his legs. He smiled faintly and pulled his coat around him, though it was quite warm out. "Almost time for dinner," he said distantly, and slipped the journal into his coat pocket, patting it once or twice as if to make sure it was there.  
  
When he exited through the door, she jumped to her feet so she could watch his retreat, noticing that his stride was long and unfettered--not at all the stride she would expect to see from a man who had been imprisoned for twelve years, and on the run for the last three. All weekend long, those words--"I thought we were friends"--repeated in her mind, sounding for all the world like a long, immutable echo.  
  
---  
  
to be continued  
*********************  
  
Whew, it takes a lot of endurance to update so many times in one week. =) Let me know what you think! 


	7. The Dungeon of Doom

Author's Note: The section I've been working on since the last update is turning out pretty long, so I thought I'd go ahead and split it into two chapters so you could read the first half. Despite the title (heh), this chapter is quite light (as in, non-angsty) when compared to the previous chapters--but hey, I've got razzle-dazzle variety like that, dig?   
  
"insert here--- usual disclaimer about not being J.K. Rowling and owning nothing   
  
  
Mine Protector  
Chapter 7: The Dungeon of Doom  
  
If someone was in search of the best Halloween celebration on earth, then one of the places they'd be a fool not to visit was Hogwarts Castle--especially this year. It was tradition that students wake on Halloween morning to out-of-sight decorations and a feast that would keep them stuffed to the gills 'til next Christmas, but this year, for the first time in ages, Halloween had fallen on a Saturday. And a Saturday Halloween was a extra-special affair. It meant that there would be an all-day fun fair in the Great Hall with contests and prizes. Some of the games were bound to be silly--like bobbing for apples and "dunk-a-ghoul"--and were being offered mostly for the benefit of first and second years. The older students were expecting music and dancing that would last long into the wee hours.  
  
At first, though, the day started out no different than past Halloween celebrations: students trundled down to breakfast and discovered the usual carriage-sized jack-o-lanterns and clouds of swooping bats. But this time the long dining tables had been removed to create more space, and small, circular cafe tables had been set up in their place. In certain areas of the castle, coffins and skeletons were rigged to spring out of the wall with little warning; if a student wasn't fast enough, the skeletons had a tendency to clutch their robes with bony fingers, refusing to let go--this made trips to the bathroom especially hazardous. A real live banshee kept scampering across the ceiling of the Great Hall, wailing in an unearthly fashion, and the whole of the castle was, quite suddently, draped in an unpleasant amount of sticky cobwebs. The mood was festive, but also decidedly creepy.   
  
At breakfast everyone had tried to crowd around the cafe tables, and there was so much shouting and moving about that it took several minutes for anyone to notice that there wasn't a single teacher around--not Dumbledore, not even Hagrid. Devon Rouquefort, the Head Boy from Ravenclaw, finally stood on a chair and banged a couple of aluminum water pitchers together to get everyone's attention. "Everyone settle down!" He hollered. "I have an announcement!"  
  
Gradually, the chattering amongst the student body died down, until eventually the only noise was the infernal banshee--and even she piped down a little, finally realizing that no one was paying her much mind. Devon adjusted his robes and began to speak self-importantly in a thick, nasal voice: "I'm afraid I have some frightening news...out teachers seem to have gone missing. They were here last night, but by this morning had vanished into thin air." He wrung his hands together for effect, and several first and second years gasped, expressions of sheer panic breaking out over their faces.  
  
From their seats near the back of the Great Hall, Ron and Hermione exchanged amused glances. Their teachers were, of course, not missing at all. Rather, they were--with the help of the sixth and seventh years--busy concocting a labyrinthine haunted house in the empty dungeons located within the bowels of the castle. From his perch on the chair, Devon continued: "We have reason to believe that our teachers have been kidnapped by Halloween spirits and are now trapped in the dungeons." With this, several more gasps sounded, and even a few third-years were starting to look concerned, despite the corniness of Devon's public broadcast. "Once the sun goes down, the upperclassmen will be leading you down to the dungeon in small tour-groups so that you might help us discover what's become of the Hogwarts' teaching staff . . .I'm afraid backing out is *not* an option!" He watched with a small, satisfactory smile as a few students protested out loud, then finally added, quite cheerful: "Enjoy your breakfast, then!"  
  
"Well, *that* was convincing," Ron said, massaging his shoulder. Gryffindor's first Quidditch game was against Slytherin the following weekend, and Harry had been working them double-time. Even Hermione, who was arguably in the best shape of all the players, had woken up stiff and sore on Halloween morning.  
  
"Where is Harry anyway?" She asked, looking around at the nearby tables and seeing no sign of him.  
  
"Aw, still putting together his silly costume," Ron said, looking irritated. All three of them had volunteered to be part of the "Dungeon of Doom" (as McGonagall called it), but Ron had refused to dress up as a monster and scare little first-years. He claimed it was cruel, but Hermione suspected what really bothered him was the prospect of hiding out alone during those short stretches of time between the rotating tour-groups of students--time alone spent in an empty, dank oubliette, no less. He had requested a job as a tour leader, instead, and Hermione said she would do whatever job they needed her for. She expected she had better cook up some sort of costume, just in case.  
  
"I just realized I need a costume quick, Ron!" she exclaimed, trying to mentally pick through her wardrobe for any costumey-type ensembles. -Hmmm. I could wear my school uniform with my midriff showing and go as an MTV tart...No, surely Lavender and Parvati have cornered the market on that little number...- It was no good; most of the clothing she'd brought with her fell along the lines of sensible prefect apparel: modest skirts, sweater-sets, and weekend-worn jeans. "Blast!" she swore, "I haven't got any ideas."  
  
Ron looked non-plussed. "You oughta go down the the kitchens and nick some of Dobby's socks," he advised.   
  
She looked at him suspiciously, pretty sure she knew what he was getting at. "What for?"  
  
"Well, that and a tea-towel and you're all set as an out-sized house-elf."  
  
"A tea-towel isn't enough to cover my arm!"  
  
He grinned mischieviously. "That's the best part of Halloween, innit?"   
  
---  
  
Severus Snape would have completely fogotten about Halloween if Minerva McGonagall hadn't coming knocking on the door of his private quarters at noon, requesting 20 pounds of dry ice and his three largest cauldrons. As if turned out, McGonagall, Hooch, and Sprout were dressing as the three witches from MacBeth for their part in the Dungeon of Doom.   
  
"Really, Minerva," Snape said, admonishing her slightly. "I can't believe you want to do that tired Haunted House act again. The students always become over-stimulated and are up all weekend long, running through the quarters trying to out-frighten eachother."   
  
"Lighten up, Severus," she replied, looking uncharacteristically cheerful--even without all her teeth. "We'll need the dry ice by four, so don't forget it."  
  
It wasn't that Snape disapproved of Halloween on principal, it was that he valued his privacy. During his Quidditch-and-Hogsmeade free weekends, Severus preferred to stay in and read or bone-up on his own research. Now he would have to haul a burlap sack of dry ice down to the usually off-limits storage area of the dungeons, and from there would probably be talked into rattling chains or some other demeaning task. But he had a loyal spot for Minerva, and when four o'clock rolled around he diligently gathered up the ice and left the quiet sanctitude of his private hearth. Once only a few steps out his office door, he was surprised to hear a female figure arguing with someone in the dark.  
  
"Just.....just give it!" she said, sounding annoyed. Snape walked a few paces closer, and she came into view in the dim hallway, which was illuminated by only a few wall-mounted torches. He heard a strange clanking, and was shocked to realize that the girl was actually wresting...with...a suit of armor! She swore and pushed the armor against the wall, struggling to yank something out of the knight's hands. It was a sword--heavy and scrolled at the handle, and nearly four-feet in length. "I...only want...to...BORROW it!" the girl spoke haltingly between heavy exhalations, and loosened her grip on the sword enough to lift a hand and brush a few curls back from her face. In that one familiar gesture, Snape recognized Hermione Granger.  
  
She had dressed up as some kind of warrior or rogue, he realized: she was wearing a pair of brown suede trousers that had been tucked into black riding boots, and on her upper-half she had donned a thin cotton tunic and an elaboratly gilded breast-plate--also stolen from a suit of armor, no doubt. Her hair was braided around her head in a complicated pattern, and it was a look that very much suited her--not just the braids, but the entire outfit. Statuesque as she was, she looked quite noble, almost brave--and...well, beautiful, too. She adjusted her stance, and Snape's eyes caught at the glittering knife that hung from her belt; he knew at once that it was the real thing, not any musty old Hogwarts' artifact. The weapon was inlaid with mother-of-pearl on the handle, and the blade itself was a long, scallop-edged affair that narrowed down into a very real and dangerous point.   
  
-Why on earth would Miss Granger need such a big knife?- he thought deliciously, fully aware of the double-entendre.  
  
The suit of armor snickered noiselessly, and in a flare of anger she started to make another lunge at it. Before could work the sword back into her grip, though, Snape stepped into the light and placed a hand on her shoulder.  
  
---  
  
Hermione's Saturdays were usually taken up by training: on one end there was the grueling Quidditch practices that Harry held twice a day on weekends, and on the other she had Auror's training with Dumbledore on Saturday afternoons. In actuality, Hermione's Quidditch-playing was really only a convienent way to work physical workouts into her schedule with little question from any of her classmates. Her Auror's training with Dumbledore consisted of close, one-on-one spell studies that lasted several hours--hours that she usually explained to her friends as time spent in the restricted section of the library.   
  
Hermione saw both the physical and the mental workouts as necessary to the development of her Aurorship skills, and would have normallly stressed over missing an entire weekend of that essential physical and mental training. Her work with Dumbledore, in particular, had just reached an exciting note: only two weeks ago she had perfected the sheild spell, and the headmaster had promised they would begin working on the next defensive spell--barrier--before the holidays started. There were four basic levels of defensive magic: mantle, shield, barrier, and wall. "Mantle" was relatively simple in that it decreased the accuracy of an attackers spells; "Sheild" was a more powerful spell that took a good deal longer to master, but was more effective and longer-lasting than "Mantle". The spell for "Barrier", however, was extraordinarly complex in that it actually absorbed an attacker's curses--the better "Barrier" a wizard could cast, the longer her or she could withstand curses in battle. Every Ministry Auror could cast a strong Barrier spell, but even Barrier was useless against all three of the Unforgiveable Curses.  
  
The only other defense beyond the Barrier spell was "Wall", which was said to withstand even Avada Kedavra. So far as Hermione knew, no one but Dumbledore had successfully cast "Wall"--not even Voldemort.   
  
Despite the fact that she was anxious to begin working on "Barrier", even Hermione had to admit that she was having fun. Things had started looking up as soon as she had found a proper costume: she'd discovered the trousers and boots at the bottom of her trunk, and the tunic was actually one of Ron's old shrunken night-shirts. The breast-plate she had sneakily removed from a sleeping suit of armor on the landing of the grand staircase. When she had finally revealed her new look to Ron, his reaction had been mixed.   
  
"Ta-da!" she'd announced, striding importantly into the Griffyndor common-room. "I'm Joan of Arc. . .What do you think?"  
  
"You look fantastic," Ron said, then shook his head quizzically. "But I thought you were supposed to dress as something scary?"  
  
She couldn't help but grin fervently. "Some foolish people might say that a woman with vision and power IS scary, Ron!"  
  
"You'll need a sword, then," he pointed out, laughing. Agreeing, she had left the common-room in search of one.  
  
There were plenty of swords throughout the castle--swords posted over doorways, swords holding up tapestries and banners, swords used as table-legs--but all of them were rather short, unimpressive, and ugly. It wasn't until she had worked her way down to the dungeons that she found a perfect one, very long and heroic-looking. But the blasted suit of armor didn't want to give up his sword, no matter how she bargained! She finally tried to take it by force, but that seemed to make the thing only more bent on refusal.   
  
"You insufferable pile of tin!" she shouted, hoping insults might do the trick. She had almost given up when, with the barest of sounds, someone placed a firm hand on her shoulder, causing her to fairly leap right out of her own skin.  
  
"Professor Snape!" She exclaimed, jumping backwards. "What are you doing down here?"  
  
He gave her his usual look: one that was an improbable mix of sourness and curiousity.  
  
"I *live* down here, Miss Granger," he said, his voice gravelly. "And since you *don't*, I think I should be the one asking you what it is, exactly, that you're up to."  
  
"I..." she looked at the suit of armor, which still seemed to be snickering. "I need his sword, and he's being difficult about it."  
  
Snape gave her the once over, and she thought she saw something like...was it amusement?...in his detached, coal-colored eyes. "You already seem to own a rather large knife, Miss Granger. Won't it get the job done?"  
  
"It's not really as effective...as a prop, professor." She stared at him quizzically, her mouth parting just slightly.   
  
"So size is what matters, is it? In that case, let me see if I can help you." He leaned forward so that his body was very near hers, and his face was alight with flushed color in a way that she had never before witnessed. There was a heady, liquor-like undertone to his words that almost spilled over into her own body, lifting her on a drunk, unsteady wave of lightheadedness. He lifted a hand and stretched it towards her--she noticed that he had long, elegant fingers, like that of a viola player--and as it neared, she stiffened, certain he was going to touch her.  
  
But he didn't. Instead, he reached under the suit of armor's arm and gave it an odd little squeeze. The armor doubled over with a loud clatter, and its sword promptly fell to the ground. Hermione snatched it up with a cat's reflexes, then looked back at Snape in wonderment  
  
He was smiling, clearly enjoying himself. "They're ticklish, Miss Granger," he explained, and with that sauntered off, slinging a burlap bag over his shoulder.   
  
Hermione spent a few speechless seconds alone in the dark, then began to giggle out loud. Before she could collect herself, Harry came out of nowhere and nearly mowed her over; they both crashed into the suit of armor together.  
  
"There you are!" he shouted, picking himself up. He was wearing red robes that had been spattered with even darker-red blood, and had used a container of "Bemus's Brilliant Beard Grow" to sprout up an impressively thick beard overnight. "The 'Dungeon of Doom' is starting in an hour, and I still haven't been able to turn my beard blue!"  
  
Harry was--to his delight--playing the role of Blue Beard that evening; McGonagall herself had transfigured several oddly-shaped gourds into what more or less resembled a collection of grotesque, severed heads. Harry was going to hide in a room where the "heads" of Bluebeard's seven wives would dangle from the ceiling, and once a group of students was led in he fully planned to burst out of the corner and brandish a wickedly-sharp ax.   
  
"Hold still," Hermione said, rather captivated by his enthusiasm. "Azurio" she murmured, making a slight gesture with her wand.  
  
"Is it blue?" Harry asked frantically, trying to crane his neck to see.  
  
"Very."  
  
"Thank goodness," he sighed, relieved. "I have to go polish my ax, but Sirius asked that I send you up to his office."  
  
"Oh really? What for?" she asked. She had made an effort to treat Sirius more graciously since that first week of school; she spoke up in class again, and even stopped by his office for a now and then tea-time--but they weren't near back to being the friends that Sirius had apparantly remembered them as.  
  
Harry snickered, which served only to baffle her. "You'll see," he said, and took off towards the lower dungeons.   
  
Hermione watched him go, but the pressing darkness soon engulfed him. She slipped the new-found sword into her belt and straightened her breast-plate. Auror's training or not, she couldn't deny that it was turning into an interesting weekend.  
  
****************************  
  
To be continued with more Halloween Goodness! 


	8. The Dungeon of Doom Revisited

Note: More Halloween goodness, as promised! enjoy!   
  
Mine Protector  
Chapter 8: The Dungeon of Doom Re-visited  
  
Sirius stared at his image in the mirror; that face that looked back still startled him, every time. He lifted a finger to trace the faint lines that were permenantly etched into the corner of both eyes. Smile lines--what a weird phrase. There was history here, no doubt, but not much of it was spent smiling.   
  
In Azkaban, there had been no mirrors. Neither the dementors nor the prisoners had any need for them, so why would there be? After escaping, the mental image Sirius had of himself was still fixed at age 21--when he had been full-faced and beset with a pair of wide, pretty-boy eyes. Once during his initial period of hiding-out, he'd been delusional enough to crawl on all fours over to a puddle, still thinking himself in animagi form. He'd bowed his head to lap up some refreshment, not even aware he was human until he saw his very own face coming towards him from the water's reflective surface.  
  
He'd nearly run from what he'd seen--a shrunken ghoul of a man, his face so hollowed that his jaw-bones could have been used as carving knives, eyes that seemed to comprehend nothing.  
  
He thought he'd be that appalling non-man forever, but Harry--protecting Harry--gave his shattered life a focus these last three years, and plenty of rest, paired with good meals, had done him wonders. He almost resembled his 21-year old self again. Older, of course, his face chiseled as only an adult's can be, but that horrible, vacant expression--the shell of him that was left by the Dementors--seemed to be gone, for now.  
  
Though deep in thought, Sirius was aware of Hermione's wavering, unfocused reflection, which was located just behind him in the mirror. She didn't realize he had caught on to her presence, and watched him openly. Her hands were on her hips, and she had her feet planted in what was almost a defensive stance. Noticing this, he felt a little heaviness threaten to burden his shoulders; she seemed scared of him, or wary, at the very least. But he didn't know why.   
  
He did know that he felt the need to un-do her systematic defenses. He had no idea where such defenses originated from, but toyed with the notion that they had something to do with her muggle-born heritage, and perhaps the fact that she seemed quite mature for her age figured in, too. Yes. . .she was bright, strong, and young--clearly capable of watching over herself--but there was something threatening to come apart under that serious demeanor.   
  
He wondered if she might need saving from something. . . something that had nothing to do with him.  
  
---  
  
She waited in the doorway several minutes before Sirius realized she was there. He turned away from the mirror and faced her, smoothing down the robes he was wearing--apparantly, it would take nothing less than Halloween to get him into proper wizarding clothes. The robe itself was clearly a royal garment, though ancient and shabby; it was black silk with silver buttons, and an impressivly thick mantle of blue-fox fur covered much of the chest and shoulders.   
  
"I take it this is a new look for you," she mused, noticing that his hair had been brushed back from his forehead like a slick crow's-wing, revealing a slight widow's peak.   
  
"It's the Prince Dracula look. You like?"  
  
She nodded her approval and finally moved from the doorway; the tip of her sword dragged a path on the floorboards as she did so. Sirius noticed, saying "Joan of Arc, right?" And she nodded, admittedly pleased that he'd guessed correctly.   
  
"So Harry said you'd asked for me?" she ventured, trying to get down to business.   
  
"Hmm?" He appeared distracted, searching across his desktop for something, then suddenly snapped out of it. "Here we are! Ah, yes. . .I need some help with. . .well, it's rather personal. I hope you don't mind."  
  
"What is it?" she asked, curious now.   
  
He broke out in laughter, which jolted her. "Don't look so serious!" he exclaimed. "I just need some help with this. . ." he held a bottle of black nail polish out to her. She took it and turned it over in her hands, quite uncertain. Noticing her expression, he explained: "Harry and I spent near and hour trying to apply that gunk and made nothing but a mess. We thought that you might be more familiar with applying it."   
  
She nodded. "Sure, but why not just paint your nails with a cosmetic color wand? They sell them at Zonkos. Two sickles, I think."  
  
"They were sold out," he said, and took a seat at the little round tea-table that sat before his fireplace, watching her expectantly.  
  
She sat down across from him and shook the polish bottle vigorously, understanding that he didn't feel foolish about wearing nail polish, but about his inability to apply it--simple as it looked. "Spread you hand flat on the table," she said, "fingers apart." He did as told and she began applying the polish in thin, even strokes, noticing that his fingernails were well-kept--wide and square. He seemed interested in what she was doing, and even she had to admit that there was something soothing about polishing nails with the real stuff, rather than tapping color out with a simple cosmetic wand. She also noticed--though she tried not too--that his hands were broad and sturdy; strong, rather than possessing the smooth elegance of Severus Snape's.   
  
She finished the right hand and, out of habit, bowed her head to blow on the wet polish.   
  
"Does that make it dry?" he asked softly, in wonder, and the breath between her lips died away.   
  
She straightened up, nonchalant. "In theory," she said. "It's just something muggles do, but I don't know that it really speeds the drying process." She started on his left hand and he began speaking again.  
  
"It's good to be back at Hogwart's, you know. What I was younger I felt this was the only place I had family--much the same way Harry feels, I imagine."  
  
She looked up from his hand, and saw that his face was far-off, clearly wrapped up in some memory. "What happened to your own family?" The words left her mouth before she could stop herself.  
  
"Dead, mostly," he said, looking unmoved. "My father died when I was ten, and my mother was quite ill for most of her life, and passed soon after I was imprisoned. My brother Virgil is dead, as well."  
  
"Do you miss him?" Her voice quivered a little. -Stop it!...- she told herself frantically. -He'll become suspicious...he'll wonder why you're nosing...-  
  
But he seemed quite oblivious, in fact, and only said: "I wish I did, but we were never close . . .we had different mothers, you see. I think he always resented me for that fact."  
  
Different mothers? She suddenly wanted to ask a million questions--about her own father, about the grandparents she had never met--but she held herself back to herself to a single one: "But why? Having a different mother wasn't you fault."  
  
He chuckled a little. "No, it was my father's fault. Virgil's mother died when he was seven, and I was born exactly four months after that. The Blacks are a lousy bunch of no-goods, Hermione . . . .imagine that, my own mother was my father's mistress *long* before she was his wife."  
  
Hermione's head was reeling. She was learning more about her family in this one sitting than she had in the last fifteen years. She sat back in her chair, hard. It was almost too much to take. One more word and she would spill everything to him.  
  
"These look good," Sirius said, studying his fingernails. "You have a talent for this."  
  
"Hardly," she said, shrugging, but at the same time letting out a sigh of internal relief, grateful he had changed the subject. "It's just something you pick up."  
  
"Now there's only one thing left to do. . ." he stood and walked over to the fireplace, picking up a small vial off the mantle. "A Halloween Haggarding potion," he said. "Prepared by yours-truly." With that he tipped the vial into his mouth and swallowed, letting off a brief shudder before doubling over completely, heaving as if he were about to go into seizures.  
  
Hermione jumped up and hurried over to him, clutching at his arm. "Are you allright? Are you? Answer me!" she commanded, and he stood upright and smiled--his face an absolute horror.   
  
She couldn't help but back away in revulsion. "Oooh ick!" she exclaimed. "You look...terrible!"   
  
He laughed. "That good, is it?" His normally handsome face looked like a twisted old root, dry and pinched, and there were two dark hollows where his eyes should have been. His complexion was gray and mottled, and even his voice seemed different--raspy, somehow.   
  
"Yes," she nodded. "You look just like a Prince of Darkness."   
  
"Excellent," he said, and practiced sneering as he did so. "Now tell me, Hermione. . .how adept are you at using that sword?"  
  
---  
  
Twenty minutes later, Hermione found herself deep in the Dungeon of Doom, hiding behind a large iron maiden. Several rat skeletons littered the floor, and a sleek, dust-covered coffin sat in the middle of the floor, raised on a high dias. -What on earth have I gotten myself into...?- she wondered. The stolen sword was readied in her hands, and she flexed her grip around the hilt; tightening, then relaxing. . .tighten, relax. . .  
  
She couldn't deny that she was itching to swing it at something. The adrenaline in her body had her back tightened up like a set of piano-strings.   
  
Murmurs sounded from out in the hallway, and she pushed herself flat against the wall, hoping that the iron maiden hid her from view. The door creaked open, hesitant at first, then swung wide. Through the iron bars, Hermione saw several sets of feet shuffle through the door, then lifted her gaze until they settled on a very pale-faced group of Hufflepuffs.   
  
Ron was leading them, and look quite relaxed as he opened his arms wide and boomed: "Welcome to the Crypt of Prince Dracula!"  
  
The door swung shut, locking itself, and the Hufflepuffs jumped in unison.   
  
"As you may know, Prince Dracula was a righteously bad Dark Wizard who lived in the 1200's," Ron said, surveying the room. "A Irish muggle named Bram Stoker wrote a book about him that, unfortunatly, made the Prince look like a romantic, simpering git." A few of the Hufflepuffs laughed uneasily at this, and Ron gave them a severe look. "See these rat carcasses?" he kicked one, and it skittered across the floor, causing the students to jump once more. "Legend has it that the body of Dracula is entombed in this very room. . .that he clings to life by draining blood off rats."  
  
One of the first-year girls actually squeaked out loud at this, and though a few of the boys laughed as if she were silly, many others looked as if they shared her concern--judging by their white, drawn faces.   
  
"Oh, and another thing. . ." Ron paused dramatically, and Hermione smiled to herself. He was good at this. "On Halloween. . .they say Dracula re-gains his powers completely, and goes on the hunt. . .for BLOOD!"  
  
The coffin began to creak open behind him, and the Hufflepuffs collectively screamed, dashing for the exit, then pounded frantically on the door when realized it was locked.   
  
Sirius' hand, pale and spider-like, inched out of the coffin and lifted the lid off completely. He arose from its silken lining and turned his horrific, withered face towards the students.   
  
"Noooo!" one of the boys wailed, looking as if he might wet himself, but Sirius only opened his mouth in a silent hiss, revealing a mouthful of steely fangs that were brighter than moonlight.   
  
That was Hermione's cue. Dramatically, she leapt out from behind the iron maiden, sword in hand. She stopped in front of the students and spread her arms out protectively. "Stay back," she told them. They stared at her in wonderment, eyes goggling from their wan faces.   
  
"AWAY HELL-DEMON!" she shouted, advancing towards Sirius with a speed that seemed to catch him off guard. She raised the sword and slashed it deftly in his direction, missing his face by mere inches. He stumbled in surprise, still hissing, and she bounded on top of the coffin.  
  
"Hermione. . .?" she heard Ron say, clearly baffled.  
  
Sirius swooped for her ankles, but she jumped out of reach, then sprung back off the coffin, tossing her sword in the air at the same time. Her landing was light. Quick as a flash, she reached behind her back and caught the sword, then twirled it around twice and brought it down mercilessly, aiming straight for the vampire's eyes.   
  
The Hufflepuffs screamed in terror, and Sirius thrust forward to ward off her attack, his hands circling around her wrists like a pair of vice-clamps. They stood like that for several seconds, their arms raised up in show-down as they glared at each other, eye to eye. Ever so slowly, he bent her wrists back, wrenching them until she had no choice but to drop the sword. It fell on the stone floor with an angry clatter, and Hermione let out an authentic scream when the vampire dropped her arms and bent her back at the waist cruelly, baring his terrible fangs for all the Hufflepuffs to see.  
  
"Go!" she pleaded. "Save yourselves!" Her words were cut off when Sirius chomped into her neck gracelessly. Blood burbled from the wound and poured out over her shirt and armor in little warm rivulets. At that same moment, the door to the dungeon magically unlocked and the Hufflepuffs bolted out, still screaming.  
  
---  
  
Hermione started giggling as soon as they left. Sirius still had his teeth in her neck, and was biting as if he meant it.   
  
"Ouch!" she yelped, swatting his back. He let go of her and pulled away, a wide grin on his horrifc face. His hands remained on her waist, and he squeezed her a little, looking quite excited.  
  
"Those must have been some play-acting classes you took!" he said, impressed. "I really thought you might skewer me with that sword."   
  
"Ehrm..." she said, shrugging. In truth, she had studied both sword-play and knife-throwing two summers ago, training with an Italian circus for over a month.  
  
"Don't be modest," he said. "You were fantastic!" He squeezed her a second time, his wide fingers encircling her waist. She gulped audibly and he looked down at them, then--as if surprised to see he was touching her--promptly dropped both arms back to his sides.   
  
Hermione studied the lengths of her arms casually. The fake blood from Zonkos was already started to fade away. She picked up the sword and re-inserted it into her belt, then tucked a few stray curls behind her ear. "Shouldn't a new group be coming now?" she asked.   
  
Sirius cracked open the door and peered out into the dungeon hallway. "I don't see anyone," he said. "But it's dark. . . wait, I think I hear a commotion up ahead."  
  
"Probably just more frightened first years," Hermione suggested.   
  
"No, I don't think so. . ." Sirius listened for several more seconds. "I heard Minerva's voice. I think something may be wrong."   
  
Hermione stood up straight and adjusted her armor, looking for all the world like a real Joan of Arc going off into battle. "Let's go find out," she said, and they left the empty crypt together.   
  
---  
  
Ron was having a pretty good time leading frightened students through the dungeon, and he expected the kids were having fun, too. They had looking appropriately fearful when Harry had jumped out with his ax, but even with the blue-toned beard, he still looked like Harry Potter, and the effects didn't last long. The three witches from MacBeth had memorized several lines from the play, and the Hufflepuffs had politely stayed around their cauldrons long enough to hear them recite the whole "Boil, boil, toil and trouble" speech. But there was something not-very-scary about seeing three witches dressed up as...well, witches. In fact, Ron almost worried the students were getting bored, but by the time they survived Hagrid's room full of real, live blast-ended screwts, he could sense that fear--the real stuff--was finally coursing through their systems.   
  
Sirius's Dracula Crypt had been the most effective at putting a good dose of fright into them, no questions asked. In fact, it was almost too effective, you might say. The terrified Hufflepuffs had fled down the hall ahead of Ron, and he soon lost them in the maze of corridors. "Get..back here, you. .stupid idiots!" Ron hollered, out of breath from chasing after them. He leaned forward and slapped his hands to his knees, collecting himself. That's when the curse hit him from behind.  
  
"Stupefy!" Someone boomed, and Ron felt the curse graze his ear, sending him flat-out against the wall, and nearly breaking his nose in the process.   
  
"You missed," another voice said, and Ron's eyes cleared enough to see two towering figures before him, both dressed in black, hooded robes. Both figures were silent for a moment, but the larger one began to slowly roll up his sleeve, then finally thrust his arm out for Ron to see.   
  
Even in the dark, Ron could make out the outlines of the dark mark.   
  
That's when he began yelling at the top of his lungs.   
  
---  
  
By the time Sirius and Hermione reached Ron, a small crowd had gathered around him, including McGonagall, Hagrid, and Dumbledore--who was dressed, oddly enough, in a striped nightshirt and matching cap. Harry rushed in from the other direction, panting loudly. "What happened?" he asked.  
  
"There are death-eaters in the school, that's what!" Ron hollered, his face blazing. "They tried to stun me and then ran off when I called for help."  
  
"Death-eaters in the school? Are you sure, Ron?" McGonagall looked skeptical. "It is halloween, after all. Perhaps someone was trying to give you a fright?"   
  
"Well it bloody well worked!" Ron said, angry that no one was taking him seriously.  
  
"Even if it was just a student dressed up, it doesn't change the fact that Ron was attacked," Sirius said, patting Ron's back in support, a gesture that made Ron flash him a grateful look.  
  
McGonagall, on the other hand, looked bewildered. "Sirius? Is that you under that hideous face?"   
  
"Um, yes," he said, looking sheepish.   
  
McGonagall sighed. "Perhaps its time we shut down the Dungeon for the night. What do you say, Dumbledore?"  
  
Amazingly, he pouted a little--as if he was not at *all* reading to stop the festivities--but quickly resolved himself. "Quite right, Minerva. The older students will want to start the music and dancing soon, anyhow."  
  
After much discussion, they all broke up in to groups to gather up the rest of the students and teachers, wanting to clear out the dugeon as quickly as possible. By the time they were finished, Ron, Hermione, and Harry all found themselves back in Sirius' private quarters, drinking hot chocolate on his large, comfortable sofa.   
  
"We're missing the dance, you know," Harry said, pulling at his beard thoughtfully.   
  
Hermione snorted. "And it's a good thing, too. Hagrid is dee-jaying."  
  
Sirius looked at them thoughtfully from his desk. "Ron, do you think someone was genuinely trying to hurt you?" His face was back to normal, thankfully, but he seemed nevertheless troubled when he spoke.   
  
Ron shrugged. "I expect so. But then again, it was Halloween. I may feel differently about it in the morning."  
  
Hermione yawned. "Speaking of morning, I think I'm going to check in for the night." She rose and stretched, glad to finally be free of that heavy breast-plate.   
  
"Erm...Hermione, could I have a word outside?" Sirius asked, and Ron and Harry looked on curiously as he led her by the arm out the door, shutting it behind him.   
  
"What is it?" she asked, looking up at his profile. Now that he was back to normal, he seemed somehow more noticeably handsome than before. Remembering the warm touch of his lips on her neck, just before he bit in with those fangs, caused her to shiver slightly. Horrified at the turn her thoughts were taking, she scolded herself ferociously. -Your uncle!...He's your uncle!-  
  
-Half-uncle...- a little voice answered back, sounding smug.  
  
"Could you. ." Sirius paused, looking shy. "do you think you could teach me some of that sword-play, sometime?"  
  
She smiled. "Sure. There's nothing to it."  
  
He laughed a little, then reached out to put a finger to her chin--only a slight touch, and a fatherly one, at that, but it made her suck in her breath. She felt quite suddenly self-conscious. "You're always underestimating yourself," he said, his voice grave. "Don't do that."  
  
"Okay," she said simply.   
  
"And another thing," he began, looking a little concerned now. "Have you been feeling well?"  
  
She stepped back, baffled. "Yes? Why do you ask."  
  
"Your voice," he said, his expression still one of worry. "It seems husky...more so than usual."  
  
She shook her head. "I don't know why." And she didn't--but was quite overcome with a sudden, sinking feeling that she *should* know why.   
  
"Might want to see Pomfrey," he suggested, then gave her a little wave and stepped back into his quarters.   
  
She was half-way back to the Gryffindor tower before she remembered: She'd been back at Hogwart's for almost three months, and had forgotten to take her VesClotho.   
  
********************  
  
Just one more note: Now that I'm sort of heading towards one of the bigger "conflicts" in the piece, I really would like more feedback from you guys. Do you like where the piece is headed? Is this going where you expected it to? Is there anything you would *like* to see develop? (or not?). I would appreciate your thoughts on these matters. =)  
thanks! 


	9. Pacing the Precipice

Mine Protector  
Chapter 9: Pacing the Precipice  
  
"It was a spectacle...  
No, I mean a miracle.  
So then I fell like that girl from the balance beam.  
A gymnasium of eyes were all holding on to me....  
It was a small mistake,  
sometimes that's all it takes.  
  
- "From a Balance Beam", Bright Eyes (I can't stop listening to this new record!)  
  
  
On most week-nights, Hogwarts was dead-quiet by the stroke of midnight. By then, most students were trundling up to bed, or taking showers, or finishing last-minute homework assignments in their respective house common rooms. The main part of the castle might be disrupted by Filch's footsteps as he did patrols, or by the more common Peeves-related outbursts, but down in the dungeons, all was indefinitely crystalline with silence.   
  
Which was just how Severus Snape liked it, of course.   
  
His own living quarters were located just a few paces down the hallway from the potions classroom itself; luckily, the Slytherin dormitory was down a different corridor entirely. Regardless of popular opinion that held the dungeons as drafty, chilly, and unpleasant, he found that his was one of the more homey areas of the castle. His rooms were low and stone-walled, but since they were underground and lacked the castle's aged windows, they were also quite warm in the winter, and pleasantly cool in the summer. A thick, tapestried-rug covered the floors, and he had magically enlarged his fireplace to accommodate his best cauldron; typically, the fire it held was so large and bright that he needed little else to illuminate the room. It was before this fire that Snape spent most of his free time; sometimes working on his own potions, and other times, he merely stared into the silent, orangey flames, thinking.  
  
Anyone who had judged Severus Snape to be calculating, sarcastic, and dour would have been dead on the nose, no doubt. He was often labeled as a misanthrope, and didn't really feel any shame in the label; in his experience, most people really *weren't* worth much more than pocket lint. All those grass-is-greener types who walked around thinking humans were basically good and decent were, in his eyes, frightfully misguided. People were, above all, selfish and hedonistic--himself included, at times. He saw no point in pretending otherwise.   
  
This was one of the many reasons why Severus Snape saw to it that Harry Potter never received one iota of special treatment from his own hands; the boy was already gazed upon by mostly worshipful eyes, and if he ever came to see himself as flawless--as so many others seemed to see him--he would be doomed. And if Severus himself took a little bit of pleasure in pointing out the boy's weaknesses publicly. . .well, he had never claimed to be perfect either, had he?   
  
No, Snape knew he was far from perfect himself. In fact, scarcely a day went by when he wasn't reminded of those imperfections. The dark mark was, of course, the biggest reminder--that one-way wiring to Voldemort, which kept him under the Dark Lord's watchful gaze at all times. Those who thought that Snape rarely left the castle because he hated to go out in public would be wrong--he simply *couldn't* leave the castle without special precautions, no matter how may have wanted otherwise. Currently, his position as a death-eater was considered borderline-traitorous. After his recent ascension, Voldemort had surely come to realize that Severus he had been pulling the cloak-and-dagger act during these last fifteen years, and the other death-eaters were slowly beginning to question his loyalty, too.  
  
There was only one small--but significant--use that the dark-mark served him, and that was the ability to sense the nearness and activities of other death-eaters. It gave him no insight into the mind of Voldemort himself, unfortunately, but he was fairly sure that the other death-eaters were unaware that he had trained himself to tune in on their movements. He hoped so, as it was the only advantage he currently possessed.  
  
The last time he had sensed the closeness of another death-eater, he had assumed it was merely triggered by Ivan Karakoff's presence during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Barty Crouch Jr. had been a second-generation death eater of sorts, and his presence had been too remote, too alien for Snape to attune to. Since then, Snape had increased his telepathic experiments with the dark mark. He knew he was increasing his chances of having his own presence sensed in return, but he felt an undeniable duty to not let anything or anyone connected to the death-eaters pass under his radar again.   
  
He rubbed at the mark absently; there was little activity to pick up on now, but just this weekend--right around Halloween--he had picked up a strong signal from it, one so strong it had caused him a short bought of nausea. -Who is it that you're on the hunt for...?- he wondered silently. -Who is this 'one' that protects Harry Potter?-  
  
The message troubled him deeply. Harry Potter had many protectors: himself, for one--though he may not be the obvious or first choice; then there were the other teachers, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Hagrid, and Black, most notably. Snape was of course aware of Black's identity as Potter's godfather, and though he disliked Black a great deal, he had promised Dumbledore that he would not reveal the two's private connection. Certainly, Black's arrival could be attracting the death-eaters' attentions.  
  
-But lets not forget Granger and Weasley. . .- Snape added to himself. Those two alone had certainly rescued Harry Potter from more scrapes than all of the Hogwart's staff combined, much to his own annoyance.  
  
At this thought, Snape felt a slight pulse in his arm. Whoever the death-eaters were looking for, they were getting closer to finding them.  
  
Quite contemplative, he settled back in his chair and stared into the fire, feeling his eyelids grow leaden with fatigue. Just as he was about to doze away, he heard an unmistakable *pop*--distant, but unmistakable nonetheless--and his eyes blinked back open as if spring-loaded. The noise hadn't come from the fire, that much he knew. No, to a trained potions master, the noise was all too familiar, too associated with deep feelings of triumph and pride.   
  
It was the satisfying *pop* of a perfectly completed potion.  
  
---  
  
Other than Filch and Mrs. Norris, there was only one other soul wandering the halls of Hogwarts that night. As a prefect, Hermione could move throughout the castle after hours with little worry of being punished, which, she thought caustically, was a good thing, seeing as how she would have little patience with anyone in a position of authority right now.   
  
This first week of November had been a difficult one for Hermione. Following the admittedly festive high-jinx of Halloween, she was now kicking herself for neglecting to stay on guard. This was in part due to Ron's mysterious attackers inside the Dungeon of Doom; like Sirius, she was skeptical as to the possibility of *real* death-eaters inside Hogwarts. Security had been upped dramatically since the impostor Moody's sojourn at the castle, but someone *had* tried to stun Ron for reason. If they'd wanted to scare him, or even hurt him, they could have easily done so without attempting to knock him unconscious.  
  
Besides, while there may have been no death-eaters in the Hogwarts vicinity, there were many *children* of death-eaters right under this very roof, some of whom might be currently training towards being death-eaters themselves--a fact which hadn't left Hermione's mind for many days. Not since Monday morning, in particular , when at breakfast she'd gotten a delivery from a school barn-owl. It was a small folded note on distressingly familiar parchment.  
  
"Tell your friends who you are, or I will."  
  
A threat. A small one, perhaps--one that didn't put herself or her friends in immediate danger, but it was enough. Someone was trying to force her hand. Someone concerned for Harry and Ron's well being? Maybe.   
  
Maybe not.   
  
She had murmured a quick charm and reduced the note to ash. This one she would keep from Dumbledore.   
  
"What was that?" Harry asked, poking at the ash with the end of his spoon. "Did McGonagall send you a note saying you got less than one-hundred percent on our last Transfiguration exam?"  
  
She had said nothing in reply, only gathered her books and went straight back to the dormitory. She missed the first twenty minutes of Arithmancy looking through her large steamer trunk, frantically tossing out old spell books, mis-matched socks, and quill-stubs. When the trunk was entirely empty, she muttered "Alohomora" and the false bottom came unlocked, springing open. There were only a few things in the secret compartment: some dangerous potion-making ingredients, for one, along with a fallacy stone and small vial of phoenix tears--she also had an official copy of Hermione Granger's birth certificate in here (though she had no idea where Dumbledore had actually acquired the latter). What she didn't have, unfortunately, was the usual years-worth of VesClotho. That flask was empty. Why oh why hadn't she made a full-years supply over the summer?  
  
It was that damned fairy-lash, of course. She'd only had enough to finish off a single dose.  
  
But she had to have more. Some might have said that the physical differences between a near 17 year old and a near 23 year old weren't that vast, which was certainly true enough. But if someone aged those six full years in a matter of days, the change would be noticeable. Even something subtle, like a change in voice, for example, could pique someone's attention.   
  
This was because VesClotho was something far more special than a mere youth potion. It was the ultimate disguise, in that regard. Rather than merely altering physical appearance, the potion had a profound confundus effect that repelled the efforts of anyone hoping to "unmask" the user. This was why Hermione could alter nothing more than her eye and hair color (and only slightly, at that) and still never remind past professors of the one and only Helena Black. Helena had been a stand-out student at Hogwarts--top of her class and all--and a slight change in coloring would have never thrown off canny individuals like Snape and McGonagall. Nor would it have averted the roaming Auror's eye of the impostor Moody. But that same slight change in looks, combined with the powers of VesClotho, worked wonders. Those who had known Helena could look openly at Hermione and would simply never think to connect the two together.  
  
But as the potion wore away, she grew increasingly worried that someone attentive would see her raise her hand in class, or would notice her particular habit of crossing her legs just at the ankles, and think to themselves: "Doesn't that Hermione Granger remind you of Helena Black?" "Why yes, yes she does, come to think of it....how curious."   
  
That's why she had to sneak down to the potions classroom in the dead of night, just to brew up the right amount of Vesclotho. It wouldn't have been impossible to brew the potion up in her room, or even in one of the prefect bathrooms, but seeing as how she was out of fairy-lash, she would have to raid the classroom supply cabinet anyway. Interestingly enough, fairy-lash was considered a fairly useless potion-making element, and was therefore not locked up in Snape's private stores. Girls sometimes smudged it on their cheeks or eyelids like a silvery blush, and it tended to make potions taste quite pleasant, but only Hermione seemed to have discovered its youth-altering effects.   
  
When she reached the entrance to the dungeons Hermione paused, reconsidering what she was about to do. -Just fetch the fairy-lash and leave...- she told herself sternly. But she knew that was out of the question. She needed the Vesclotho as quickly as possible--nothing less would do. Just that morning she had woken up coated in sweat, quite on the verge of a full-on panic attack; she had bounded out of bed and rushed to Parvati's full length mirror, frenzied, convinced she would see an ancient, wizened crone staring back at her. She knew she would not rest until she had the potion, and the fastest and easiest way to get it would be to just mix it up in Snape's classroom that very night, and pray to the Gods that she wouldn't be found out.   
  
---  
  
Snape couldn't believe his eyes. Hermione Granger was in his classroom at nearly 2 o'clock in the morning, making a potion.   
  
It was the noise that had drawn him out of his private room, aware that someone else was in the dungeons with him; instead of entering the classroom directly, he quietly skulked into the off-limits storage room that served as a short corridor between his office and the potions classroom itself, and cracked the storage room door open just slightly--enough so that he could get a very clear view of Hermione Granger, who was busy returning some jars into the everyday supply cabinet. -Whatever she's doing, I doubt it's for extra credit...- he thought shrewdly, just before making his move.   
  
He exited the storage room and shut the door behind him with an audible *snick*. Amazingly, Granger didn't look up from what she was doing, which was, at the moment, transferring a cauldron over to the sink-area, looking as if she were preparing to dump extra potion down the drain. Her hair was a mass of un-tamed curls that stood up crazily on one side of her head. There were dull circles under her eyes, and instead of school robes she was wearing a long gray tee-shirt, topped only by a thin, terry-cloth housecoat. If he hadn't known better, he might have mistaken her for a sleep-walker.  
  
"Miss Granger. . ." he began, in a voice that sounded surprisingly gentle, even to him.   
  
She jumped as if electrocuted, and let out a shrill yelp, her eyes bolting around the room like a trapped animal's. Oh God, he had spooked her badly. For a moment, he was spooked himself. She looked.....nothing like she normally did. That cool exterior was completely eroded, and in its wake was some unrecognizable, high-strung creature.   
  
"It's okay, Hermione," he said, using her voice for the first time in...well, ever, he supposed. Oddly enough, she blanched even at the sound of her own name, but he was relieved to see some of that frantic color drain out of her cheeks. Slowly, she seemed to collect herself.  
  
"Professor, you gave me a fright," she said, clearly struggling to sound unperturbed.  
  
"Yes. Though you can imagine I was similarly distressed when I heard sounds coming from this room at such an un-godly hour." Some of the old sarcasm was creeping back into his voice, and he finally felt sure enough of the situation to put his hands on his hips.  
  
"I needed to make something," she said simply, as if this were a perfectly legitimate excuse for using his classroom after hours. She was standing directly across from him, and they were only a few meters apart.   
  
"Yes, and lets see what that something is, shall we?" As soon as the words exited his mouth, he lunged for the cauldron she'd left by the sink. She was closer to it, of course, but clearly hadn't been expecting him to rush across the room with such fervor. Her eyes widened with astonishment at his advance, and she practically stepped aside to let him pass; at this, he assumed she had given up and was resigned to let him examine the contents of her elicit potion-making.   
  
When he felt her yank him back by the robes, he realized she was not quite resigned, after all.   
  
"NO!" she bellowed, and with a strength that took him by utter surprise, she hauled him down to the ground and promptly stomped on his ribs, knocking the wind clean out of his chest. Frantically, she hopped over his wheezing body and dumped the cauldron into the sink, twisting the water faucet on full blast. The potion--whatever it was--was washed away in the surge.   
  
"That, Miss Granger.." he gasped, rising carefully from the floor, "...was a COLLASAL mistake."   
  
His words failed to strike fear into her--in fact, if anything, she looked triumphant. "You, what do you know," she said, practically hissing. "Mistake? Ha!"  
  
He hesitated. The pacing animal in her had returned. It disturbed him a little, but he couldn't deny that it excited him, too. Even as she stood there, chin out defiantly, he was noticing the quick rise and fall of her breasts. Being a man, he had of course casually noticed the assets of other female students over the years, but it had been nothing more than that--a casual assessment conducted by a man who was decidedly lacking any sort of female companionship. But with Hermione, he was aware of more than just her pretty face, or her ripe, strong body. The quality of electricity that he sometimes sensed in her voice, in her very movements, were at times potent enough to weaken him in the knees. He couldn't quite put his finger on what the name of this quality was, but he supposed a word like "passion" summed it up nicely. Whatever it was that Hermione lived for, she did so with passion, and no matter how he resented it, he couldn't deny that it was extremely inticing.  
  
"You are over-excited, Miss Granger," he said, holding up his hands cautiously. "And I suspect you aren't well."  
  
"Of course I'm not well," she said, sounding almost calm.   
  
Severus relaxed a bit, but before he could take a step towards her, she snatched a large glass beaker off one of the tables and reeled back to let go.   
  
He heard--and felt--the beaker smash against the wall just behind his shoulder. Tiny particulates of glass bit into his neck like unforgiving insects and he flinched, quickly ducking as she bombasted another vial in his direction.   
  
"Stop it Miss Granger!" he warned, pulling his wand out.   
  
She looked at him evenly. "I don't answer to you," she said, her mouth pressed into a firm little line. He nearly stopped in his tracks. What did she mean by that?   
  
"I mean it," he said, raising his wand, pressing a few paces forward.   
  
"So do I." She was lifting a large bunsen burner now, exhaling as she hauled back to let him have it. He had seen her arm at Quidditch practice--he doubted she would miss.  
  
"Stupefy!" he shouted, and she gasped and doubled over as if punched in the stomach, then her eyes rolled back, showing only a thin sliver of white as she teetered back on her heels.   
  
She collapsed to the floor neatly, and the bunsen burner landed with a clamor beside her.   
  
---  
  
Ten minutes later, Hermione was draped in Snape's armchair, her head lolled painfully to one side, almost dipping down into her underarm. Just looking at that position made his neck ache, and Severus tucked a small pillow behind her head to keep it better propped up. He pulled up a high-backed desk chair and sat directly across from her, watching for the first stirs of consciousness. The stun he had laid on her was a doozy--he expected she might be out for as much as another half-hour.   
  
After she had collapsed, Snape had struggled to carry her back to his classroom; she was heavier than she looked, owing no doubt to the nicely muscled flanks he was supporting with his left arm. When he had readjusted his hold on her, he got a handful of something other than her flesh--a heavy, oblong flask that she had hidden in the deep pocket of her house coat.   
  
He reached into his own pocket and fingered the vial that he felt there now: it was filled with two tablespoons of the thick, nearly translucent potion that she'd housed in the flask. He was certain that it was the same thing she had been brewing earlier, and if he failed to get any sort of confession out of her, he could always study the chemical components of the sample later.  
  
Either way, he was going to find out what she had been up to.   
  
Noticing that her legs were exposed from knee to ankle (her feet outfitted in some ridiculous pompom edged socks), he walked back to his own bedroom and unfolded a woolly quilt from the edge of his bed. He shook it out in preparation to cover her up, but as soon as he got near enough to do so, he was surprised to find that her eyes were open, and that she was following his movements with glazed interest. He hesitated for a moment, and when she made no move of her own, he went ahead and spread the quilt over her--not quite daring to tuck it in around her.  
  
He lowered himself back into his own chair, crossing his legs somewhat debonairly. "You'll find it difficult to move for a moment," he cautioned, noticing that she was sitting quite rigidly.   
  
She nodded her head carefully, then shook it from side to side as if trying to clear it of cobwebs. "You stunned me," she said, and rather than sounding accusatory, as he expected, she seemed almost appreciative--as if she herself didn't really blame him for what had transpired.  
  
"Yes," he said, studying her carefully. She had calmed considerably, and even seemed comfortable at the moment, finally flexing her fingers and reaching up to smooth that wild hair.  
  
"I'm sorry, Professor," she said, not quite meeting his gaze. "I didn't mean to break into your classroom."  
  
"The fact that you broke in matters little, Miss Granger," he said, being very careful to keep his tone neutral. "I am more curious as to *why* you broke in."  
  
She sighed and tipped her head back, as if looking to the ceiling for answers. "As you know, I am hoping to be Head Girl next year," she began. "But as of late I've been concerned that my grade in potions may keep me out of the running. I only wanted to practice the Drosophilius potion before our pre-holiday exams."  
  
He cocked an eyebrow at her, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "You mean to tell me.." he started, his voice idle. "...that I was attacked by flying beakers for the sake of your 'practicing potions' session?"  
  
She finally met his eyes, then swallowed. "I can see that you don't believe me."  
  
"I don't."  
  
She leaned forward, and with a voice he'd never quite heard from her before--a very adult, oddly entrusting voice, she said: "Your disbelief is warranted. But I can't tell you what I was making in your classroom, or why I had to do it in secret."  
  
He gave her an appraising look, and sensed that she was silently pleading with him to accept her words. "You *can't* tell me...or you won't?" he asked.  
  
She paused. "Both," she said finally.   
  
He leaned back, realizing that he had, in fact, neatly entrapped her. "Very well," he said, barely able to contain his own cunning. "I won't force you to reveal the clandestine nature of this evening's events. But I hope you realize, Miss Granger, that you will *owe* me for my silence."   
  
She looked immediately uncomfortable, picking up on the explicit undertones of his words, and he felt quite buoyant as he saw her mull them over in her mind. What he wasn't expecting was the expression of haughty flirtation that slowly crept over her face, putting a high blush into her cheeks. She parted her lips slightly--those adorable bee-stung lips--and curled them into a knowing smile. She rose, fully mobile now, and both the quilt and housecoat fell from her shoulders. Wearing nothing but that thin, over-sized tee-shirt, he could more than adequately follow every aching line of her body as she stood in front of the fire, looking suddenly lit from within.   
  
"I *owe* you?" she said, deliberate, then dropped down to all fours before his feet and arched her back like some sort of sensuous hell-cat. Snape felt beads of sweat pop out along his forehead, and was suddenly very sorry that he had started this at all. She was turning the tables on him, and that was something he never enjoyed, not one little bit.   
  
Amazingly, she placed a hand on each of his knees and spread his legs without a trace of visible shame, grinning up at him in a way that was no longer flirtatious, but decidedly devious. He knew such expressions when he saw them--he was a master at them, after all. "Can I pay you now, professor? Or are you hoping to hold me off and collect interest?"  
  
It was that word... "professor"...that reeled him back to earth, quite thunderstruck at the scene unfolding before him. He leaned forward and clutched a fist-full of curls at the crown of her head, thrusting her head back roughly. "WHAT do you think you're doing, Miss Granger? Have you taken leave of your senses?"   
  
She stared at him, still suspended by the hair, and promptly burst into tears. He let go, and she scrambled up to her feet and back into her robe, sobbing heavily. "I have to get out of here," she sniffled, her voice thick. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I have to go."   
  
"Wait," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off and hurried towards the door, but he remained fast on her heels. "We can talk, Hermione," he said, uncharacteristically concerned. "If there's something wrong, we can talk."   
  
"We can't," she said, the tears halting. She put one hand on the doorknob, prepared to leave, then flashed him a quick, painful glance over her shoulder.  
  
He stood there helplessly, and was bewildered when she let go the doorknob and squeezed him into a hug, clinging desperately to him for a moment or two before pushing away again.   
  
"Sorry" she whispered again, then disappeared into the dark hallway.   
  
***********************  
  
Yes, this one was a little angsty. I don't know what it is, but I really enjoy putting Hermione in situations where she gets to exert a little physical violence--be it with a sword or flaming chemicals In fact, you will most likely get to see violence in the next chapter, as well. Hurrah! Anyway...if you're happy and you know please review! If you happy and you know it please review! If you're happy and you know it then....  
  
You get the idear. 


	10. Double-Whammy

Mine Protector  
Chapter 10: Double-Whammy  
  
Ron Weasley had a special Quidditch tradition--one which had been practised by all the Weasley brothers before him. On the evening prior to the year's season-opening Gryffindor game, he slept out on the Quidditch pitch for good luck. "Brilliant strategy," Charlie had always claimed. "Gives your body a feel for the pitch over night--gets your very blood revved up to play!" All the Weasley brothers thus swore by this method. Harry and Hermione thought them mad, of course, and refused to participate, but until this year, Ron at least had Fred and George to keep him company. Usually, the inclusion of the twins promised many pilfered bottles of butterbeer, savory meat pies, large quantities of honeyduke's fudge, and games of exploding snap played by wand-light. But now that Fred and George were gone, it looked as though Ron was the first Weasley brother who would have no familial company on the night before the Quidditch opener.  
  
Even if it meant going it alone, though, Ron would have rather bathed in undiluted bobotuber pus than be the first Weasley brother to forgo the annual sleep-out tradition. So on Friday night, as expected, he dragged his broomstick and sleeping bag down to the Gryffindor common room, making it plain to everyone that he was going through with his ritual, come hell or high water.   
  
"Herm?...Harry? You sure you wouldn't like to join?" He asked hopefully. Both Harry and Hermione were playing chinese checkers at a roomy table, drinking hot cocoa that Ginny had brewed up over the fireplace.  
  
"No way, pal," Harry said good-naturedly. Hermione said nothing, only pressed her lips together and shook her head faintly. She'd been under the weather all day, supposedly, and had even skipped out on potions class to take a nap up in her room. ("Health before schoolwork?" Ron had joked. "You must be losing your edge, old girl.")  
  
"Allright!" Ron exclaimed. "Just don't cry to me when you're slower than treacle tomorrow."  
  
"Somehow, I don't think sleeping out in the cold will improve my performance," Hermione replied shrewdly, then took a giant slug of her cocoa.  
  
"Geez, what a grouch," Ron said lightly. And with that he tucked his sleeping bag under one arm, and pressed the broomstick to his shoulder, soldier-fashion. He gave both of his friends a little salute and started to slip through the portrait hole. Before he made it all the way through, though, Hermione jumped out of her seat and ran to him, that look of familiar apprehension on her face.   
  
"Ron.." she breathed, holding the portrait open and looking out into the hallway where he stood. "Are you sure you should go out alone tonight, after what happened in the dungeons last weekend?"  
  
"Pish..." he said dismissively, waving a hand. "Sleeping on the Quidditch pitch is a Weasley tradition, but it's also a secret tradition. No one will even know I'm there. Oh course, if you're that worried, you can always join me..."  
  
She smiled a little. "No thanks. But be careful, okay?"  
  
"Sure," he said, shrugging, and she backed away, leaving the portrait frame to slide shut behind him.   
  
---  
  
Outside, the fog made a stark umbra of the forbidden forest, and Ron had to walk quite a ways before he even saw the Quidditch pitch. For the first time, the stands looked nothing like a place of glory; instead, they seemed to rise up from the gloom like the entrance to some forbidden cathedral, wind warbling through the ruined corridors. To keep himself cheerful, he forced himself to whistle, and he didn't stop until he reached the grass that lay directly below the Gryffindor keeper zone; being the keeper, he expected that this was the luckiest spot to unroll his sleeping bag. He did so, and was relieved to climb in and zip it up to his chin; the bag itself was magically charmed to keep him toasty, no matter how frosty the weather became.   
  
He stared up at the stars which, thanks to some significant cloud-cover, seemed to dip in and out of existence. He could just imagine the announcer tomorrow: "AND THANKS TO THE SKILLS OF THEIR KEEPER, RON WEASLEY, THE GRYFFINDORS FORCE SLYTHERIN'S OFFENSE TO A STANDSTILL!....."  
  
The words were still echoing through his head when he dozed off.  
  
---  
  
By the time the Gryffindor Quidditch team strolled out to the pitch the next morning, garbed in their scarlet robes, their keeper was no where to be found. There was certainly evidence that Ron had been there, however; his sleeping bag was rumpled at one end of the field alongside his prized broomstick.   
  
"What in the world..." Harry muttered, rubbing his forehead. "HERMIONE...COME 'ERE," he shouted, and Hermione, who was thirty feet up on her broom, searching the grounds from above, executed an impressive dive and swooped down to the grass, landing neatly at his side.   
  
"His stuff is still here," she said, her anxious expression deepening.  
  
"Which means that he probably didn't go too far. He'd never walk five feet away from that broom."  
  
She met Harry's eyes. "Yes, but what if someone *took* him away?" The stands were already beginning to fill with Quidditch enthusiasts, and Madame Hooch and the Slytherin team could be seen just outside the pitch, preparing to enter.  
  
"Don't even *think* that way, Hermione!" he exclaimed, then put on his no-nonsense, I'm-the-captain face.  
  
Draco Malfoy, apparently, had caught wind that something was going wrong for the Gryffindors. He strolled over to Hermione with his Nimbus 2001 cocked at his hip, looking quite pleased with himself. "Heard you're missing a keeper, Granger. Pity."  
  
"He'll show up, Malfoy," she said evenly.  
  
He leaned forward, an eager sneer spreading over his face. "Do you really think so? I wouldn't be so sure, Mudblood."  
  
Hermione nearly dropped her broom. Seeing her startled, Draco only smiled wider--and it worried her that it was probably the closest thing to a genuine smile that she'd ever seen from Malfoy. "You know something about this, don't you?" she asked coolly, though it was taking everything in her power not to strangle him then and there.  
  
He only tittered slightly, and before she could interrogate him further, she was distracted by Harry's shouts. "Here he is! He's here!" He waved frantically in her direction, and she was relieved to see Ron pull up beside him, breathing hard, as if he'd been running.  
  
"RON....are you okay?" She hurried to join both boys on the sidelines. Indeed, Ron was kneeling over and massaging a cramp in his side. His face was sweaty and vividly crimson.  
  
"Yeah," he panted. "Something weird happened, though.."  
  
"What was it?" Harry asked, squeezing his shoulder lightly.   
  
He waved a hand as if to shoo them away. "I'll tell you later. We gotta get the game started....tell Hooch we're ready."  
  
Hermione's brow wrinkled. "Are you sure? You look exhausted, Ron."  
  
"Of course I'm sure!" he said, irritated. "But please, promise me you will send a bludger straight up Malfoy's arse today, Hermione."  
  
She couldn't help but chuckle, and pivoted her head to see Malfoy and his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, talking in a tight little circle at the other end of the field, looking quite disappointed at Ron's late arrival. She was suddenly positive that somehow, Malfoy had been involved in whatever had happened to Ron last night. Her eyes narrowed, and she realized that perhaps it *was* high time that Malfoy get the message: lay off her friends, or pay the price.   
  
Hooch's shrill whistle called them over to the center of the pitch. By now, the stands were full, and the spectators were beginning to roar and cheer, waving banners of red and green. The Gryffindors faced off with the Slytherins, ready to mount their brooms, and the noise from the crowd became near-deafening.   
  
"So it's come time for the girly-beaters first game," Malfoy drawled, the focus of his antagonism not Harry, as it usually was, but Hermione.   
  
"Fuck off, Malfoy!" Seamus said; being the other Gryffindor beater, he was quick to defend his partner.  
  
"That's enough!" Hooch snapped. "Now I expect a good clean game. Best of luck!" With that, she blew on her whistle again and all fourteen players shot up simultaneously; with a second whistle the quaffle, the bludgers, and the snitch were released.   
  
Hermione had been practising with the Quidditch team since last spring, but this was her first time playing in front of a crowd, a presence which she found both overwhelming and thrilling at once. Virtually riding on a wave of the crowd's noise, she coasted backwards, club in hand, and effortlessly sent a bludger rocketing towards one of the Slytherin chasers. The bludger failed to make contact, but very nearly grazed the chaser's nose, who was then so taken by surprise that he stopped short on his broom, offering Katie Bell the opportunity to shoot forward and score.   
  
"AND GRYFFINDOR'S NEW BEATER IS LOOKING TO PUT A KINK IN SLYTHERIN'S OFFENSE!" Justin Finch-Fletchley crowed, his voice booming out in stereo around them.   
  
After that, things were less easy. Crabbe and Goyle, the Slytherin beaters, began to concentrate their attacks on Hermione, while Malfoy was free to mimic Harry's flight patterns a few feet above them. Malfoy was a decent flyer, but he lacked Harry's intuition; as a seeker he strategized by tailing and distracting the opposing seeker, rather than actually watching for the snitch itself. Unfortunately, he'd gotten this dirty bit of playing down to a near art-form.  
  
"SLYTHERIN SCORES!" Justin shouted, and Hermione had to loop upside-down to avoid Crabbe's wicked volley. The two ruddy lugs were slow on their brooms, but they put a whole lot of muscle behind their clubs. She did a couple of zippy figure-eights around them, fairly certain that if she kept moving, they wouldn't be able to aim for her properly.   
  
"SLYTHERIN SCORES AGAIN!" came Justin's voice, and both she and Seamus exchanged glances. At the other end of the field, Ron was not looking good. He seemed disoriented and fighting extreme muscle fatigue; as a result, the quaffle slipped through his grasp, several times over. If Gryffindor didn't get the snitch soon, Slytherin would win.  
  
Flying in smooth--but slower--circles around Crabbe and Goyle, Hermione looked up long enough to see that, by his motions, Harry had definitely spotted the snitch--he was only waiting to shake Draco before he made his move. Meanwhile, she glimpsed that Crabbe and Goyle were preparing to send *both* bludgers in her direction.  
  
"Harry! Ready?" She shouted up to him. A barely perceptible nod was all she needed to put her plan into action. She ground to a mid-air halt and faced the on-coming bludgers; they were blasting towards her like angry canon-balls, one after the other, but she felt oddly serene inside. Fast as they were, they seemed small and insignificant, like gnats that she could easily dissuade. The first one came into range and instead of beating it back at Crabbe and Goyle, she socked it upwards without even looking, able to gauge Malfoy's position by the play of shadows on the ground.  
  
"SHIT!" she heard him yelp, and with that cue, she walloped the other bludger upwards, where it eagerly pelted its already-injured target.  
  
With an ugly *thwap*, Draco was knocked clean off his broom. He fell fast, more loose-limbed than a scarecrow, his mouth a wide, astonished "O". Hermione stifled the urge to blow kisses as he plunged past her, his shocked team-mates looking on, silent and dumb.   
  
"POTTER GOT THE SNITCH!" Justin boomed, then added: "MALFOY CRASH-LANDS, AND POTTER GETS THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS!"  
  
Both teams came in for landing, and Hermione and Harry soon found themselves riding on the shoulders of their team -mates, their bodies vibrating with the immense fanfare of the crowd.  
  
"Brilliant, fucking brilliant!" Harry shouted to her, raising his arms up in triumph. With unexpected mirth, Hermione felt giggles course through her body, which was still suspended above the shoulders of Seamus and Ron. For the first time ever, she realized that Quidditch could be more than a handy way to keep up her physical training--it could also be a load of excellent thrills, too.   
  
A bruised and broken Malfoy was being levitated onto a stretcher while the Slytherins watched on, looking quite pitiful for once. But the rest Hogwarts had their eyes on her and Harry, and of all of them, she particularly sensed the burning, double-gaze of two men, one of whom was the brooding professor Snape, and the other embodied in the form of a large black dog, standing watch at the top of the stands.   
  
---  
  
It was quite some time before Harry and Hermione were able to corner Ron and ask him about his night out on the Quidditch pitch. First they had to endure a mad, celebratory luncheon feast up in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione, who hadn't been hungry at breakfast, found that she was unexpectedly ravenous; she tucked in to a shepard's pie with enthusiasm, and for dessert munched on a handful of brilliant red raspberries--all while being regaled with frame-by-frame descriptions of her own end-game defense.  
  
"We oughta give a name to that stunt you pulled," Seamus said, shaking his head in disbelief. "The Granger double-whammy, maybe."  
  
Hermione grinned and pushed back from the table, then said to Harry, pointedly: "I think I'd better stop eating and get to the library. Do you and Ron want to meet me there?"  
  
Harry took the hint. "Sure," he said smoothly. "We'll see you in twenty minutes."  
  
It was another struggle for Hermione to work her way down to the library, since other students kept stopping her in the hall to congratulate Gryffindor's win.   
  
"Thanks...thanks very much," she chanted, trying to politely push back the small crowd. When she reached a relatively empty corridor, she pulled up to a wall and collapsed against it, trying to collect herself. She wasn't sure how she felt about this new-found fame as a Quidditch player; it certainly seemed to Wow people more than being the best student in school, but the thought of never having a moment of privacy again overwhelmed her--but surely that would all pass, wouldn't it?  
  
"So it's our new star, Hermione Granger," a disembodied voice said, and if it hadn't been so gentle, so careful in tone, she might have attributed such a comment to Severus Snape.   
  
Sirius stepped out of the shadows, a small smile playing at his lips; his hair was disheveled--attractively so--and he was dressed entirely in black. "That was quite some flying today. Your instincts were fascinating to witness. . .like nothing I've ever seen before."   
  
She worked his words over carefully. This was the second time she had impressed him with her physical prowess; first swordplay, now Quidditch. She wondered if she was over-doing it.   
  
"I got lucky," she said, and he raised his eyebrows in amusement, as if expecting her to say something along those lines. Before he could speak, she changed the subject. "I saw you up in the stands. How come you came to the game as Padfoot?"  
  
"Ah, you saw that," he said, tipping back on his heels a little. "After all those years in hiding, I guess I'm still a little daunted by such large crowds of people. I find I prefer anonymity. . .when I can afford it, that is."  
  
She shifted a little, unsure of how to end the conversation. "Well, I'm really pleased you were there," she said, uncertain. "I need to get to the library, though, so I expect I should be on my way. . ."  
  
He smiled a little, but it was shadowed somehow, as if he was saddened by her obvious excuses to run off. "Always the studious one, aren't you?" he said, and stepped forward to brush a few strands of hair off her forehead. The slight touch caused her to break out in fine goosebumps, and she very nearly jolted when he leaned forward, sweeping in close to her face. She held her breath, frightened, for a moment, that he might kiss her. Instead, he spoke directly into her ear, his hot breath tickling her neck.   
  
"Relax...." he whispered.   
  
Relax. That single word--it gave her chills.   
  
Then he walked away, hands stuffed in his pockets casually, sauntering with that usual, breathtaking air of confidence.  
  
---   
  
Later, in the library, Hermione could still feel Sirius' hot breath against her neck; her entire body felt wrapped in the warm envelope of a permanent blush. -What has come over you?...- she thought fiercely. -First you attack Snape, then you're down on the floor licking your lips for him....and now your trembling like a school-girl over Uncle Sirius!-  
  
"You okay, Hermione?" Harry's voice drilled into her thoughts, and the heat she was feeling promptly drained away. "You look funny."  
  
"I'm fine," she croaked. "Just a little worn out after this morning."  
  
"You and me both," Ron said, collapsing into an adjacent chair.  
  
"Okay, then," Harry prompted. "We brought you here to get some answers, Ron. Where the hell were you this morning?"  
  
Ron sighed and forked his fingers through his hair, resting his head on his palms. "You just won't believe this. . ." he began.   
  
"Try us."  
  
"Okay, well, this is gonna sound crazy. . .but when I woke up this morning, I wasn't on the Quidditch Pitch. I was in..." he paused here, flashing them an agonizing look. "...in the cellar of Honeydukes."  
  
"WHAT?" Harry exclaimed, thunderstruck.   
  
Hermione felt a sharp prickle of concern raise the hairs on her neck. "In Honeydukes? But Ron...why?"  
  
"I don't know! Maybe I was hungry and sleepwalked there, you reckon?"  
  
"How did you feel when you woke up?" Hermione asked, dismissing his comment.  
  
"Shitty, if you want to know the truth. My mind was fuzzy--even more so than usual. And I felt really stiff. Of course, I imagine that might be because I spent the night on a flight of steps. . ."   
  
"This is not good, Ron," Harry said, his face now matching Hermione's dead serious expression.   
  
"Harry's right," she continued. "It sounds like someone may have stunned you, then altered your memory. That would explain both the fatigue and the fuzzy-mindedness."  
  
To his credit, Ron was taking this news rather well. More than anything, he seemed thoroughly confused. "But why...? What would anyone want from me?" He was used to facing danger at every turn and corner because of his friendship with Harry, but this was the first time he'd ever been singled out on his own.   
  
"I don't know," she replied honestly. Then a silent thought surfaced: -But if what happened has anything to do with the death-eaters...then it's probable that *I* will be the one they go after next...-  
  
Good. She'd be ready.  
  
*********************************  
  
That wasn't -too- cliffhangery, was it? Anyway, this particular day will be a busy one for Hermione. More post-Quidditch madness will ensue, but the chapter was getting long, so we'll save that for next time.   
  
By the way, it really DID hurt me to knock Draco off his broom. I adore him, and though I'd love to write a story with him as a main character someday, in this particular piece I'm afraid that he remains quite the schlub. So yes, please don't hate me for sending him to the hospital wing.   
  
Special thanks to Coffee and Loz, who have given me several warm reviews. I really appreciate it. =) And a note to Kasey, too: Sorry, but Snape really does have a sample of the VesClotho! Stay tuned to see what he does with it. 


	11. The Anaemus

Mine Protector  
Chapter 11: The Anaemus  
  
"Because a costume can be quite comfortable,  
it can make you feel more beautiful.  
It can even make you look like someone else.  
But it is still you, so there's nothing you can do..."  
  
- Bright Eyes (again!)  
  
  
He couldn't remember where or when, but Severus faintly recalled hearing of a medical legend that was believed by some in the muggle world--though even to his own wizarding ears, it sounded too fantastic to be true. What the legend claimed was that every cell in the human body was regenerated and replaced over the span of seven years--a new heart blooming out of the old, like magic even he himself couldn't perform. Such legend was said to explain why a person could go to sleep hating oranges, and then wake up the next morning with a unspeakable thirst for citrus--citrus on the tongue, citron shavings underneath fingernails, tangerine peels left to dry in a bowl and fill the air with perfume.   
  
He couldn't deny that despite their shortcomings, muggles had a distinct way of viewing the world as a magical place within which even wizards might dream of residing.  
  
-So is that what this is...? Did I sleep for seven years and grow new eyes...new skin?-   
  
These questions were, of course, inspired by Hermione. He didn't know how it was that, less than a year ago, he could freely snarl at her--silently condemning her unkept mess of hair, cringing at the crescendo of her pretentious, know-it-all voice--only to now reflect on her every move and breath as gifts of silver perfection.   
  
Surely, he had gone mad.   
  
And yet he remained suspicious of her. Her actions from the other night betrayed her not as a mere precocious sixth-year, but as someone to be regarded with a high degree of skepticism. Why did she sneak around making potions in the middle of the night? And when, in all bloody hell, did she find the time and means to become such an athletic wonder? Severus couldn't deny the sheer delight that blazed under his skin when he saw her moves during the Quidditch game--her ferocity and lightness seemed incomparable.   
  
And yet, how? Potter had always been a hero, in reality and on the Quidditch pitch--it was practically his blasted birthright, after all. But hadn't Hermione always been the brainy side-kick? A tugging, down-to-earth sense of conscience that had always done her best to keep the Boy Who Lived in line? Someone who struggled to look out for the boy's best interests, even if it meant getting dragging into hairy situations involving three-headed dogs and basilisks?   
  
Someone who was, in other words, not unlike himself.   
  
In his private quarters, Severus mulled over such thoughts as he worked; the Quidditch game had ended mere hours ago, and he had afterwards hurried back to check on the mystery potion he had discovered on Hermione's unconscious body. He boiled the vial itself in an air-tight cauldron of ordinary well-water, and after over 24 hours of tending, the potion had been heated to such a degree that the liquid components had evaporated, leaving behind a fine matter similar to quill-shavings.   
  
He tipped the now-solid contents of the vial onto a shallow tray, shaking it out into a thin layer of dust. He rubbed a bit between his fingers to feel for texture and clarity, then brought it to his nose and sniffed.   
  
Ironically, it smelled faintly of citrus.  
  
After much weighing, studying, and testing, he soon had the solid matter divided up into eight tiny piles--each representing a separate ingredient. This kind of work was the test of a true potions master; it went beyond the mere brewing and broke the task down to the study of its essential components. The first six ingredients were easy for him to define, as he was quite familiar with each of them: powdered bicorn horn, fluxweed, knotgrass, boomslang skin, scarab oil, and willow sap. He did not find defining these elements particularly assuring, however; the first four ingredients were required for the immensely complex polyjuice potion, and bicorn horn and boomslang were especially unstable products. Willow sap, knotgrass, and fluxweed were all quite easy to find, but Scarab oil was very rare and expensive--Hermione had certainly not come by it in the school's supply cabinet. What on earth had the girl been brewing up? Whatever it was, it was extraordinary sophisticated.  
  
Trying to ignore his rising anticipation, Severus studied the final two ingredients. One was extremely shiny--almost wet to the touch. He trailed his finger in it, curious. Funny, it reminded him of....but no, that couldn't be. Could it? Absently, he noticed an faint, healing burn on his knuckle, and touched the substance to that very spot. When he wiped the excess away, he saw that the burn was gone; not even a trace scar remained. That could only mean one thing: the seventh ingredient was Phoenix tears.  
  
How she had come to have Phoenix tears in her possession was a mystery indeed. Severus had some of his own, which he kept locked up in a desk drawer inside his own quarters, but the only reason he had such a luxurious ingredient was because there was a real live Phoenix, Fawkes, residing within Hogwarts. Unlike other potion components, Phoenix tears could not be sold by vendors--it had to be collected from the live source, and with the bird's permission, at that.   
  
Severus exhaled at this discovery. Again, he experienced the sense that whatever Hermione had been brewing, it must have been something quite out of this world.   
  
That left only the eighth ingredient--a fine, silvery substance. Though he touched it and weighed it several times, he still hadn't a clue what it was. It possessed that light, lemony smell, but other than that seemed utterly innocuous. Finally, after much internal debate, Severus gathered up a bit of it and tipped his head back. What he was about to do was undoubtedly risky--swallowing a raw element was never a good idea, and he only ever did so as a last resort. But in this case, he was quite literally *desperate* to know what the silvery powder was. He sprinkled some on his tongue and swished it around in his mouth, then swallowed.   
  
There is was--a pleasant, sweet taste. Lemony. But when it hit his stomach, he felt his muscles lurch.   
  
-Of course..- he thought, doubling over slightly, but grinning a little in spite of himself.. The girl was, in fact, brilliant. And it seemed she had finally discovered a use for fairy-lash.  
  
Once the spasms had passed, Severus set about gathering fresh ingredients together. It was time to re-create a new batch of the girl's secret potion. Whatever wonders or horrors it might perform, he was determined to see them for himself.  
  
---  
  
"Concentrate, Hermione. . ." Dumbledore's voice came from far off, wavering in her head, rather than actually spoken in her ear. She was standing perfectly still in the middle of his circular office, a position that caused her no discomfort--rather, she felt as if she were very nearly levitating. The air that circulated around her seemed almost tangible, crackling with imperceptible energy.   
  
"Dissaeptum," she murmured, and the energy tightened dramatically, squeezing around her ribcage like a massive fist. She tested her legs and found that she could move quite freely, despite the heaviness.  
  
"Excaeco!" The curse came at her underhanded and exploded against her left hip; with no more than a brief, hot sizzle, it dissipated on contact, falling in a shower of sparks to the floorboards.   
  
"Excellent!" Dumbledore exclaimed, stepping forward, his face positively alight. "The barrier held up against a significantly potent paralysis spell--often used by Aurors to stop wizards from casting aggressive fire and fury charms."   
  
"That's good, right?" she said, allowing herself to smile. As much fun as the day's Quidditch game had been, she had been looking forward to this training session immensely.  
  
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "I can say with all honesty that you have already surpassed the goals I had drawn for you this year."  
  
"Already?" she asked, surprised, then added, teasingly: "Well, call it a day then, shall we? I have some feasting yet to do before nightfall!"  
  
The headmaster chuckled a bit, then drew up to full height. "I'd like to test that barrier under a more strenuous spell first, if you're up to it." His expression was casual--the look of a man who wanted to put no pressure on her. But even 'no pressure' was a persuasive force coming from a wizard like Dumbledore. Any test, no matter how minor, was important in terms of proving her dedication to the man and his immediate circle of supporters; with no reservations, she graciously accepted his offer.   
  
He only smiled in response, then backed away into the shadows, so she had no indication of what direction the curse would come from. She tried to withdraw into herself, paring her thoughts down to a single one that she chanted silently, letting it build strength around her: Barrier. Barrier.   
  
"Dissaeptum..." she whispered.  
  
"Halo Windaro!"   
  
Her eyes burst open. And in that most indefinite course of space, a quick, pained thought forced its way her mind: Windaro--where had she heard that before? The word was familiar.   
  
She was suddenly sure she was viewing an impossibly slow world behind a sheet of wavy glass. The curse shot out like jagged lightning, a bright yellow bolt from the blue, so to speak, a creature starved and licking at the air. Without thinking, she dropped her wand and thrust her hands out before her. -Stop!- her mind insisted, eyes rolling upward, all the saliva retreating from her mouth in one huge swallow.  
  
Without explanation, in complete defiance of anything she had every before seen, the curse *did* stop. She clasped it between her palms like a solid thing, where it swirled, angry and alive but unable to touch her.   
  
"What...?" she murmured, feeling her senses return slightly.   
  
It didn't last long. The air that filled her lungs seemed to rush forth, not exiting from her mouth but propelling out through her fingertips. Painfully, the curse contracted and shot from her hands...*away* from her hands as if it had sprung from her very own wand--the one that now lay on the floor, forgotten.  
  
Across the room, Albus Dumbledore was knocked clear over his desk, crashing into the wall behind it.   
  
Her hands were still buzzing madly, and she thought she might soon faint, but everything came back into sharp focus when she saw her teacher slump to the ground.  
  
"Albus!" she cried, rushing to his side. He seemed conscious, but was bent over and struggling to catch his breath. His glasses were askew, and he fumbled with them for several seconds--until she had the presence of mind to reach out and adjust them. "Oh God! What have I done?" She ran to his bathroom and filled a tumble with cold water, then returned to hold it to his lips, her own heart knocked at her ribs all the while. He drank deeply, then paused to catch his breath.   
  
"That. . .was quite a feat, my girl," he wheezed, his eyes sparkling despite the fact she'd quite obviously injured him.   
  
"I'm sorry," she said, her eyes welling with tears. She helped him to his feet, and carefully assisted him into a chair, finding herself completely unable to let go of his quivering hand.   
  
"Oh, please, please believe me when I say I didn't mean to do that." The tears spilled down her cheeks, and she was amazed to see him smiling, though it was an unsure, cloudy smile. He squeezed her hand back, and she choked up again.  
  
"Hermione...do you know what you just did?" He straightened up, quite noble despite his evident fatigue.   
  
"No, no...but I'm sorry. I won't do it again." She chanted, tremors beginning to wrench her body.  
  
"Calm down, Hermione," he said soothingly. "What you did wasn't wrong. And you couldn't help it. So please don't apologize."   
  
"What was it? You've seen that happen before?"  
  
"A few times, yes." He seemed distant as he answered, and she said nothing, sensing that he was about to continue. "Tell me...are you familiar with the phrase 'Habeo in animo'?"  
  
"That's Latin," she said, a bit puzzled. "It sounds like. . . 'I am resolute'?"  
  
"'I am resolved'," he corrected, not unkindly. "Yes, based on a rather ancient maxim, it's a phrase used to describe Anaemus magic."  
  
"Anaemus? I've never heard of that before."  
  
"You wouldn't have," he said. "It's thought to be superstitious nonsense these days. But long ago, Animus magic was practiced by a very devout group of wizards and witches who believed in preserving balance, above all else. The phrase they used to identify each other was 'Habeo in animo'."  
  
She frowned a little. "I don't think I understand, sir."  
  
"The Anaemus believed that a wizard or witch's power is more than just a trick of light and dazzle, but is in fact the seat of thought, intellect, mind, memory, and consciousness. It is a definition of ones very essence. They also believed that magic was in everything--animate or inanimate, muggle or wizard."  
  
"They sound fascinating," she admitted. "But how does this relate to the magic I just did?"  
  
"I'm sure you've by now realized that you returned that curse to me without the aid of your wand?"  
  
Actually, she hadn't. But looking over her shoulder, she saw that he was right. Her wand was still on the rug, right where she had dropped it. No, she *had* used her bare hands to return the curse, and now that she held them out in front of her, she saw that they were red and faintly blistered, as if she had held them too close to a boiling cauldron.   
  
Without waiting for her to answer, he continued: "The Anaemus stressed that magic was contained in human will, not in wands or potions--or even in words, for that matter. What is a wand or a word, after all, but a tangible conduit for a wizard's or witch's inner-will?"  
  
"Yes," she said vaguely, feeling lost at his words.  
  
"But it is rare that a wizard can lasso that sense of will on their own--which is why most depend on tools and incantations. When you contained the curse in your hands, you were merely asserting your will, and without the diffusing effect of a clumsy wand, the magic was that much more potent."  
  
"But why have I never heard of this before? Can everyone do this?"  
  
"No," he said, rubbing his beard absently. "It's rare to find a modern witch or wizard with a defined spiritual or visceral connection to their own magic--most see magic as a very crude operation, one used for everyday tasks and not much more."  
  
"You...." she murmured, filling with realization. "You can do it, though. You *are* an Anaemus. That's why you know so much...why your abilities are so far-reaching."  
  
He tilted his head in a charming way. "You flatter me, child. While I do believe in the teachings of the Anaemus, they themselves are long dead, and much of their teachings are lost. The only thing I try to embody is what lasts--their philosophy."  
  
"That containment magic. . .will I be able to do it again?" she asked.   
  
He paused. "I don't know," he said, finally. "I expect something triggered it in your this time. If you can identify what that trigger is, then I imagine it's possible--you may even one day be able to assert your will effortlessly, with practice."  
  
She breathed in sharply. To assert magic with no wand? No incantation? With nothing more than her very will? What a glorious and frightful power that would be--a power she wasn't sure she wanted. And the trigger. . .what had it been? She tried to remember, but only saw the frozen curse, trapped like a bird in her hands.   
  
Nothing else would surface.  
  
---  
  
Marching through the corridors, Severus Snape might have been mistaken for a stampeding bull; his normally slick hair was dampish and wild, and he seemed to emit a slight growl with each imposing step.   
  
The first thing he had done, of course, was travel by floo powder to the Gryffindor common-room. Such things were only done in cases of emergency, and by God, Severus was having one hell of an emergency. Since it was Saturday, he wasn't surprised to see that the room was empty except for a handful of students, including Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom, who were both reading by the fire when he emerged from it, sparks and ash cascading off his robe.   
  
"Snape!" Ginny squeaked, slamming her book shut. Longbottom merely trembled and shrank within his seat.   
  
"WHERE'S GRANGER?" He roared, knowing Minerva McGonagall would kill him for this--though frankly, he cared little.   
  
"Ah....ah!" Ginny stammered, her mouth jumped as if on a stringer. "L-Library?"  
  
Without a word of thanks, he left through the portrait-hole, stomping and huffing his way towards the library. Students and teachers alike rushed to get out of his way, many of them looking curious, rather than frightened. -And why wouldn't they be curious, considering the state I'm in?- he thought bitterly. It was all the fault of that Granger and her potion, too!  
  
"Professor Snape!" someone called, and he didn't look to see who it was, only marched onward, blind in his fury. "Severus!" the voice said again, and this time someone physically grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him to a halt.   
  
Whirling his head, Severus saw that he'd been delayed by none other than Sirius Black, the mysterious new Defense instructor. Not very mysterious to Snape, of course, though he'd purposely had little contact with the man since his arrival.  
  
"Good god, Snape," Black said, looking alarmed. "Have you gone mad? Storming through the corridors like a wild rhino? What's come over you?"  
  
Black's words only served to further incense him. "LOOK at me, Professor Black," he snarled, gesturing at his own body. "Hermione Granger is responsible for my present condition, and I need to find her at once!"  
  
Sirius looked him up and down, then shook his head slightly. "What exactly has she done to you? I see nothing wrong."  
  
Snape froze. "Do not jest with me, Black. What Miss Granger has done is no joke, I assure you!"  
  
"Yes, but what exactly has she done? I don't understand. . .you look just fine. Healthier than usual, even!"  
  
"You mean...you don't see it?" Snape sputtered, his fury not tempered, but momentarily forgotten.  
  
"See what?" Black asked, his voice maddeningly rational. "And please don't storm up to Hermione in such a state--I'd hate for someone to get hurt."  
  
"I will NOT hurt her, Black. I intend only to give her a piece of my mind, and then some!"  
  
"Frankly, Snape, it's not *her* I'm worried about," Black said, amused.   
  
"Out of my way!" Snape retorted, but before he could shove Black aside, the man backed off on his own accord.  
  
"Be careful," Black called after him, his voice cheerful. "And pray that she doesn't have a bludger on hand!"  
  
Snape muttered a few choice obscenities under his breath, then swept through the library doors. Madame Pince looking on in disapproval as he worked his way through the aisles, checking every single carrel for her intolerable mop of curls, sure to be bowed over some immensely difficult book. But there was no Granger, though there were *plenty* of signs that she'd been here earlier--one carrel was piled high with books on incredibly advanced defensive magics, all of them long and tedious reads, certainly something only a genius would bother with.   
  
-Ohh Granger..- he thought coldly. -I know you too well. I can sniff out your trail and find you,   
no matter where you may hide.-  
  
As if pulled by a magnet, he found himself climbing more stairs, working towards the high center of the castle without slowing. When he finally rounded the last staircase, he spotted her; she was wandered down the very hall that led to Dumbledore's office, looking deep in thought. Snape slipped into a dark doorway and watched her through narrowed eyes. There she was, that silver, perfect girl, looking heavenly in weekend jeans and a rumpled, short-sleeved blouse; as usual, there was something untidy about her that caused him to nearly unravel. He clenched his eyes shut momentarily; the girl would not get the better of him this time.   
  
Still seeming oblivious to his presence, she meandered by the door where he had hidden himself, fingering her wand absently. A few steps more and he saw her stiffen slightly, as if she'd suddenly caught his scent. Before she could react, he darted out with both hands and clenched her around the waist, swinging her a few inches off the ground and into the empty classroom behind him. She landed on her feet, but rather carelessly, touching his arm to steady herself. Realizing what had just happened, she then looked up into his face; her pupils dilated dramatically, but she didn't look particularly terrified--a fact that Snape guessed would soon change.  
  
"I've been looking for you, Miss Granger," he hissed, and with that, slammed the door behind him.  
  
---  
  
Hermione hurried to barricade herself behind a desk, wand in hand; whatever she had done, if must have been bad. Snape looked ready to give her a dose of the old 'Crucio'. Other than his obvious rage, though, she couldn't help but notice that he looked. . .well, good. As if he'd had some fresh air recently, his skin seemed not sallow but rich and honeyed. Buttery. Yes, exactly like something she'd like to sink her teeth into.   
  
"Um..." she gulped, a little distracted by the fact that his snarling lips looked deliciously red.   
  
"Not the answer, I'm looking for, Miss Granger," he said, moving closer. "Now I'll ask you again. . .what have you done to me?"  
  
"Done?" she asked, distracted. "Nothing, I don't think. Why, is something wrong?"   
  
"Yes, something is wrong!" he raged, slamming his fist down on a nearby desk. "Look at me. . .can't you see how I've changed?"  
  
"Er...no?" she said, uncertain, though it was clear that something about him *had* changed. He was a tall man, normally quite thin, but now his chest seemed. . .somehow broader, didn't it? She wouldn't have minded pressing her hands to it to find out, but sensibly restrained herself.   
  
Severus stared at her for several moments, as if trying to search out answers in her expression alone. "Of course. . ." he said, his eyes brightening with some realization. "There's a confundus effect. You and others can't see the change--not quite, anyway." His anger seemed to subside as he silently worked over the puzzle.   
  
"Oh my clever girl," he continued. "You really have outdone yourself this time. Now tell me...who taught you to make that potion?"  
  
"Potion?..." she said, feeling dull-witted. He looked so expectant....so youthful.   
  
-Youthful-  
  
Everything clicked into place at once.   
  
Severus Snape was now the physical embodiment of the man he'd been ten years earlier.  
  
---  
  
Severus Snape was not a foolish man--far from it; when he swallowed Hermione's mystery potion, he had been prepared for anything. Perhaps the girl had discovered a new way to soothe menstrual cramps, or maybe she was making an illicit potion to help Potter pass his N.E.W.T. exams; whatever the case, she had gone to great lengths to keep him from discovering the potion's true purpose. He had spent Friday morning summoning glass shards from his classroom wall--proof of her strength and tenacity.  
  
After drinking the potion, there had been hellish pain, a horrible sense of being burned from the inside out. He came to on the floor of his study, his entire body coated in a thin scrim of sweat. Aside from that, he felt oddly well. A little peppier than usual, maybe. Almost--dare he say?--cheerful. At first he took these symptoms as pointing to some kind of rejuvenation elixir, similar to a strong round of vitamins. But when he held out his hands before him, he saw that something was very wrong. His forearms looked tauter and more defined, less heavily veined than usual. A slow sense of gloom caused his body to go cool and loose. Suddenly certain something was very wrong, he had rushed to his bedside mirror and was promptly taken aback by what he saw.   
  
Himself, age 27--give or take a few months.   
  
Now the girl who had brewed up the original wonder-potion was gaping at him, looking positively pained with disbelief. She saw the truth written on his features now, and judging from her reaction, she had known *exactly* what that potion would do.  
  
Now the question was, why had *she* been making it in the first place?  
  
"Oh no," she said, her complexion graying dramatically. "You took the VesClotho, didn't you?"  
  
"VesClotho, is that what it's called?" He felt nearly giddy to be finally getting somewhere.  
  
"Yes, VesClotho! Where did you get it? Did you. . .oh my God, you STOLE it from me, didn't you? You stunned me and found the potion in my pocket. . ."she rambled on, looking as if she might soon beat herself--or him--senseless.  
  
"What is the potion for, Miss Granger? And why were you making it? I let you get away with not answering me last time, but this time I DEMAND that you fill me in on the details," he said, a no-nonsense edge creeping into his voice. He was surprised that his anger had drained away so quickly, and as she squirmed under his gaze he grew increasingly aware that his feelings were transforming into acute arousal.  
  
-Oh Lords...- he thought, uncomfortable. -Please don't tell me that my libido has also regressed to that of a lusty, hormonal 27 year old...-  
  
"Sir, I simply *can't* tell you why I was making the potion," she said, struggling to compose herself. Seeing his displeasure, she added: "But I assure you I had Dumbledore's approval. You can go ask him now...he's in his office. Just go ask him."   
  
"Ah yes...Dumbledore. He *would* be in on this, wouldn't he? I assume he even gave you the Phoenix tears?"  
  
She jumped slightly, apparently alarmed at how he had been able to deconstruct the VesClotho's individual elements. "He did," she finally replied.   
  
"And did he also teach you how to make the potion?"  
  
"No," she said, and a tiny determined gleam showed in her eye. "I invented VesClotho myself."  
  
He scoffed outloud. -Yes, Miss Granger. . .I imagine you just might *have* invented the potion...- he thought silently. -You are certainly capable enough. A better question is, then, why did YOU need it in the first place...-  
  
He kept these questions to himself, though. Already, he could tell that threats would be useless against a person of her extraordinarily stubborn nature. A Gryffindor to the core, she would tell him nothing, and even if he went to Dumbledore, the old headmaster was sure to take her side.   
  
Abruptly, his thoughts returned to a few nights earlier, when she had been wrapped in his quilt, resting in a chair before his very own fire. Even then, she had refused to tell him anything. . .but he had sensed her struggling with a desire to confess, an urge to let someone in on whatever secret she carried alone. He could see that same struggle now; it was evident in the bobbing of her pale throat, the way that she kept tugging down the hem of her shirt, over and over again.   
  
"Allright, Miss Granger," he said, his voice steady. "I will pester you no further."   
  
He did an about face and left the room, his robes wafting out behind him. From the corner of his eye, he saw her reaction--it was one of deep, unbidden surprise.  
  
It was a feeling he recognized. Surprise: like waking up on an early winter morning to discover that citrus suddenly smells sweet, and alluring.  
  
*****************************  
  
A/N: This was a difficult chapter to write. So many significant revelations in one chunk.... (I hope this satisfies a certain someone's request for 'more plot'?). Whew!  
  
A few issues: The term "Anaemus" is based on the Latin word 'Animus', meaning life. I changed the spelling to avoid associations with Jung's definition of the word. I've also been told that 'Animus' is used in RPG terminology, which is my other reason for warping the word. The Anaemus is my own take on the "wandless magic" that shows up as an occasional motif in HP fanfic; my version being based mostly on freaky postmodernism--but more about that later ; )  
  
Oh, and the next chapter will probably force me to upgrade this piece to NC-17. Hope that's okay with yall. = )  
  
Again--thanks for reading. Reviews are appreciated.   
  
small correction: in the original upload I said that Severus' had be un-aged by 15 years, when I meant to write 10. =) 


	12. Dawn Comes Calling

Mine Protector  
Chapter 12: Dawn Comes Calling  
  
-Goddamn that Severus Snape...- Hermione thought viciously. -Why did he have to up and decide to be agreeable? Why didn't he stew and shout and try to *force* the secret of VesClotho out of me as he would any other student?-  
  
She rolled over in her bed roughly, and the mattress creaked in protest.   
  
-Because he's cottoned on to the fact that you're *not* just another student...Normal students don't sneak around in the middle of the night brewing up complex confundus disguises, do they? No my girl, they certainly do not...-  
  
She slammed a pillow down over her head.   
  
No good. Her thoughts simply wouldn't be silenced.   
  
Oh oh oh...the trouble she could be getting herself into. -Don't even think about it..- she ordered herself. But then again, why not? He was cunning to the Nth degree, and that was just judging him by the fact that he had re-created the VesClotho in little over a day--why, she hadn't even known such things were possible. She could button up her secrets as much as she wanted, but had no doubt that *somehow* he'd figure them out. If she could just explain herself to him, then maybe...maybe he could at least come close to understanding.   
  
Blast him. She groaned outloud and snapped her covers a few times, irritated.  
  
"Good God, Hermione!" Parvati's harassing voice announced itself sharply from across the room. "Could you at least use a silencing charm before you carry on with yourself like that?"  
  
---  
  
Hermione found that a little walk did wonders to calm her nettled thoughts. It was very early on a Sunday morning--barely 5 o'clock--and she guessed that perhaps the only creatures awake other than herself were the house-elves.   
  
And, if all went well, Severus Snape would be awake, too.   
  
She hadn't really meant to find herself down in the dungeons, once again poking around in the potions classroom, but here she was. This time, she had the sense to leave her dormitory in jeans, a sweatshirt, and some grubby old trainers--no way was she going to approach Snape in a nightshirt and poufy socks again, and she didn't want to be caught nancing about in her slinkiest dress robes, either.   
  
And speaking of slinky. . .she had been unable to forget the shameless little display of naughtiness she had put on in the potion master's own living quarters. Unashamed she may have been then, but now a warm blush burned her cheeks at the memory. It had been her attempt to play the game, of course--one which she had mistakenly thought he'd been goading her towards. The black, furious eyes she'd been forced to meet when he pulled her hair back served as an unquestionable statement of his true feelings: he saw her as a meddlesome child.   
  
-Maybe because you behaved as one in his presence?-  
  
She fiddled with the doorknob on that led to Snape's forbidden cache of potion ingredients; he had a secret door to his quarters out in the corridor somewhere, but to search for it would be a hit and miss process. Instead, she focused on the rather hazy memory of him entering the classroom from *this* door when he had caught her cleaning up the VesClotho, which meant that the supply closet must lead to his own rooms. But the door was firmly locked, as she expected.  
  
"Alohomora...?" she murmured half-heartedly, but there was a stronger charm keeping the door closed--perhaps he had even given it a password.   
  
"Um...potions master?" she tried. The door didn't budge.   
  
"Slytherin?... Slytherin Rules?.....er...Mudbloods blow?....oh bloody hell just open!"  
  
"Miss Granger. . ." came a dry voice behind her. She pivoted around, a little triumphant. If anything, she had known that making a ruckus would alert him to her presence. And here he was, standing in the classroom's entrance with his hands on his hips, dressed from head to toe in a silky green bathrobe.   
  
Silk? -Who knew that Severus Snape was such a hedonist?- Then again, she should have guessed as much.   
  
"I assume you are looking for me, and not ingredients for a new wonder potion?"  
  
"Yes, sir," she said, straightening up. "I wanted to have a word with you."  
  
"I see. And this word would be best delievered at the crack of dawn, would it?" He asked, rearing up an eyebrow.   
  
She almost giggled aloud, and wondered--not for the first time--if anyone else appreciated his dry humour as she did. She had, on several occasions, been forced to pinch herself beneath the table during potions class, trying to stifle laughter at one or another of his scathing, witty remarks. Sure, Malfoy and the Slytherins always chortled when Snape managed to insult Neville or Harry, but the were less aware of the subtle ways in which he insulted their own intelligence, or lack thereof.   
  
"I took a chance that you might be awake, Professor. I hope I didn't disturb you."  
  
"Ah yes, you assumed that I would be kept awake all night marveling at your potion-making genius...is that it?" He rotated on his hips a little, glaring at her.   
  
"No," she replied, her voice cool. "I just know that temporary insomnia can be a side-effect of VesClotho. Though it should pass in a few days."  
  
He looked a little surprised at her words. "How did you discover what the side-effects are?" he asked, curious.   
  
Now it was her turn to be surprised. She had assumed he had put two and two together and was fully aware of her own VesClotho consumption, but apparently, he was not. But she didn't have to say anything now--the arrogance that drained from his facial features left no doubt that his math skills were undergoing a sudden improvement.   
  
"You made the potion for yourself," he said, his voice dry with realization. She merely nodded, and he stiffly gestured for her to follow him into the corridor.   
  
He stopped in front of an innocuous stone wall, significant only for the fact that it featured a small torch mounted up high, near the ceiling. He gazed at her warily, then turned to the wall and said "Brandywine" in a low tone. At that, the stones tumbled away noiselessly, like a waterfall of dominoes until there was nothing but a small entrance in the space where they had been. He ducked down and stepped through, but she found herself unable to follow, standing slight and trembly as if the wall opened on to the edge of a canyon. -Once you step in, there's no going back- she thought, and a little bit of fear fluttered around in her chest, though it was somewhat tempered by her own rising excitement. From the other side, Snape bent down and looked at her inquisitively, then finally extended his hand so that it reached across the stone barrier between them.   
  
She took hold, and with a slight lurch he pulled her through.   
  
---  
  
Though he hadn't realized it at the time, Snape had spent most of the night as if preparing for a visitor. He had showered somewhere around 3 o'clock in the morning; sleep seemed out of the question, and he had hoped the warm water would relax him--instead, he left his bathroom fresh and oddly invigorated. With a few waves of his wand, he set about tidying up the quarters: sweeping aside potion odd and ends, straightening pillows, running a dust-cloth over the woodwork. He slipped into his most luxurious robe and slippers, then heated the teakettle until it chuffed mild steam. Without much thought, he set up two cups and saucers on the tea table, then pulled up two high-backed chairs, placing them so that their occupants could face one another directly.   
  
-What odd behavior you're displaying, old man...- he thought absently, polishing a spoon against his sleeve. Then he remembered that he *wasn't* old. Not anymore.   
  
In a way, he supposed what she had given him was a gift; how many other people got to re-live their youth and vigor again? Not many, he supposed. On the other hand, he had no idea how long the effect would last, and he was beginning to hope it would wear off soon. It was disconcerting. . .not feeling like himself. Or, in this case, feeling as he did ten years ago. Interestingly, it had been just over ten years ago that he had taken on his current teaching position at Hogwarts. And before that. . .well, before that there had been the death-eaters.   
  
As if in response to his thoughts, the dark mark pulsed faintly.   
  
-Yes Mister Riddle. . .you need not remind me of your presence. I am quite aware that you are watching me. . .-  
  
He wondered, vaguely, if it was feasible to brew more VesClotho and drink himself back to the age of 20. If it were possible, he might be able to finally rid himself of the dark mark altogether. At this thought, he added a heavy dollop of scotch to his teacup.  
  
Before the earl gray had finished steeping, he heard a mild scuffling from somewhere beyond his stone walls.   
  
-Excellent timing, Miss Granger . . .-  
  
When he pulled her through the entrance to his rooms, she looked around as she had never seen the place before. Her eyes traveled to the massive fire, up along his bookshelves, stopped briefly at the slightly ajar door to his bedroom, then finally settled on the tea table. Snape was slightly amused to realize that she was the first person, other than Albus Dumbledore, to set foot in these rooms at his invitation. And twice in the space of a few days, at that.   
  
"Is that for us?" she asked, acknowledging the teakettle.   
  
"It may as well be," he said thinly, pouring tea into both cups. He kept the scotch-infused one for himself, passing her the other. Without asking, she added a generous splash of Dewer's into her own. Her facial features were set in a serious, nearly grim arrangement that failed to relax even when she downed half of her drink.  
  
"I've come to give you answers," she said, her voice oddly formal.   
  
"Have you?" he said, as if he were awaiting no such thing.   
  
"Yes," she continued. "I know you're wondering why I have been taking VesClotho..."  
  
-Taking? As in more than once?- Snape struggled to hide his astonishment. Until that very moment, he hadn't an inkling why she had been mixing and self-administering such a strong potion, but now dread flooded him, full force. He realized that the girl sitting across from him could be anyone--perhaps someone working for Voldemort, like Barty Crouch. But if that were the case, why would she chewing that ripe bottom lip, struggling for a way to confess to him? If she were one of Voldemort's, wouldn't he already be on the floor, his entire body coursing with the red agony of 'Crucio'?   
  
"Your reasons are your own," he said, finally.   
  
She smiled a little, but remained steady. "You're just saying that because you want me to spill the beans on my own volition. . . but that's okay. I don't blame you. We're I in your shoes, I'd be suspicious, too."  
  
It was a struggle, but he met her eyes directly. "Should I have reason to suspect you?" he asked, still expressionless.  
  
"Yes, you have reason to suspect me." She tilted her head and studied him a little. The light from the fire was playing across her features, and behind that youthful complexion he thought he glimpsed someone older. . .someone familiar. "But you don't have reason to fear me," she finished.  
  
He laughed outloud; a hearty rolling that he hoped disguised his own sudden bout of anxiety. "Fear you? Don't be such a silly girl. What I *fear* is that you are about to step into quite a wasp's nest of trouble. Whatever you've been up to, I imagine it warrants far more than a simple detention."   
  
She sighed heavily, then drank deep from her teacup. "I see you're not taking me seriously," she said, looking as if she had anticipated such behavior from him.   
  
-Don't lose it now Snape. Remember the spider and the fly. . .you'll have to use honey if you want this one to talk. . .-  
  
"I'm sorry," he said, lowering his head in what he hoped was a contrite gesture.   
  
Unfortunately, she looked unconvinced. "Don't patronize me," she said softly, trickling a little more scotch into her cup, then, after a moment of thought, added another splash to his. "Surely you have noticed that I'm not an ordinary sixth year student? Think back, Professor. Work past the clouds that obscure you memory and I think you'll come to realize that you've known all along."  
  
"Known what?"  
  
"That I'm not who I seem to be." With this, she gazed at him almost sorrowfully, as if her heart might break if he did not see what she wanted him to. He felt something like a corkscrew turn in his chest; there it was, that nagging feeling of recognition. A sense that he had known her somewhere before. And even as he studied her sweetly pleading face, the dark mark tingled slightly, just enough to make tea lap over the edge of his cup.  
  
"That, Miss Granger, is obvious," he replied coolly, dabbing at the spilled tea with the cuff of his robe. "You're brilliant at every subject, your moods change as if at the turn of a knob, and you're Gryffindor's new star Quidditch player. Clearly, there is more to you than meets the eye. Now just tell me who you are and why you've decided to make hobby of harassing me."  
  
"I don't want to harass you!" she snapped, and he saw some of that fury flare up in her eyes. "I'm trying to confide in you . . . if you took me at all seriously you would see that!"  
  
The fury was replaced by a hint of frustrated tears. He could see her abdomen hitching, as if she were fighting valiantly not to cry on the spot. The internal tugging returned, this time one of rising guilt; he was playing games and she was not. She had approached him on an even playing field and he had, without shame, given her the usual derisive run-around.   
  
"I apologize," he said, sincere this time. "Tell me what you want, Miss Granger, but please don't make me play guessing games. I haven't the strength to do so at such an early hour, and on so little sleep."  
  
"Did you try a bath?" she asked, and in seeing his puzzled look added: "I find that a bath helps with the insomnia."  
  
"I took a shower," he admitted.   
  
She shook her head. "Not the same. You have to fully immerse yourself in warm water."   
  
Her words conjured up a vivid picture of her standing tip-toe at the edge of a whirlpool bath, fully undressed and dipping her foot in the bubbles to test the water temperature. Dabbing his brow, he tried to wipe the erotic vision away. "Why do I have insomnia anyway?" he asked, attempting to change the subject.   
  
"You're metabolism has been altered," she said, and his mind failed to wrap around the unfamiliar scientific term. "Your internal chemistry is now as it was ten years ago; it will take awhile for your body to fully adjust."  
  
He had a vague idea of what she was describing, and found himself impressed at her acute knowledge regarding the potion's side effects. Indeed, she must have spoken the truth when she had claimed to be its inventor. "And how long will I. . .be like this?"  
  
She studied him carefully. "The effects will begin to wane in three months. Coming out of the potion can be difficult. . .the confundus effect reverts in your own body. You may experience stress and paranoia," she explained.  
  
He had another brief vision of her, this time her face was twisted in pale anger, and she rose up on the balls of her feet to fling a glass beaker in his direction. More tiles clicked into place.   
  
"When you attacked me the other night. . .you were coming down off the potion, weren't you?" he said, and he marveled that they were now having a calm discussion about those strange events.  
  
"Yes," she nodded carefully. "Normally I come to school with a full year's supply of VesClotho on hand. . . this year I was out of fairy-lash, and was forced to brew the potion in your classroom. I knew it was a risk, but I was risking more if I let the potion wane from my system. It was only a matter of days before someone noticed a difference."  
  
"Such as noticing your true age?" he asked, managing to hold back the deluge of questions that was pushing at the back of his throat.  
  
"That and other things," she said. At the obscure reference he flashed her an irritated look, and she clarified: "My true age is nearly 23. Not too much of a physical difference there. I was more concerned that I would be recognized."   
  
He was unable to contain his suspicions any longer. "Recognized as who? Is yours a face I should know? I keep feeling that I should." Checking the level of accusation in his tone, he continued: "Why are you at Hogwarts? What is it you want?"  
  
She shrugged slightly, as if what she wanted was menial. "I'm here to help Dumbledore. . .to learn from him, and to use what I learn to protect others."  
  
Despite the fact that he had swallowed quite a bit of scotch by now, Severus felt his skin ice over slightly. "Protect? Who are you here to protect?"  
  
She met his eyes. "Harry Potter."  
  
"I see," he said coldly. Dull anger washed through him as he realized that Dumbledore had, once again, gone behind his back regarding the Boy Who Lived. Now this girl, Hermione--or whoever she was--claimed to be working with the headmaster to *protect* Harry Potter. Add to that the betrayal of hiring Black, And Severus felt he'd been thoroughly double-crossed. "And how is it you *help* Potter, exactly? By assisting him in his dangerous high-jinx, time and time again?"  
  
"If I assisted him in 'high jinx' it was only to ensure the boy's own safety," she said firmly. "He regards me as a friend, not a person of authority. I can't order the boy about and expect to keep his trust, now can I?"  
  
He begrudgingly thought she had a point, but didn't say so. "You say you feared you'd be recognized," he began, changing the subject. "Is that because I and others know you? Are you someone who works for the ministry?"  
  
She laughed bitterly at his suggestion. "No, I am not with the ministry. I tried to enroll into the Ministry's Aurorship program, if you want to know the truth, but Fudge was more interested in oogling my breasts."  
  
-Sounds like classic Fudge...- he thought, but kept it to himself.   
  
"Dumbledore took pity on me, I suppose," she said, her fact rapt with memory. "He told me I could train as an unregistered Auror here at Hogwarts, under the condition that when I was finished, I join his circle as an Unspeakable."  
  
"You ridiculous girl," he said, unable to withhold himself. "Don't you know enough to never accept a deal that has 'conditions'?"  
  
"Don't *you* know enough?" she retorted, starting blatantly at his robed arm, at the spot where the dark mark was.   
  
"I do now," he said through gritted teeth. "But you are young and talented, why sign yourself away to a life of servitude?"  
  
She laughed without mirth. "Funny, Dumbledore said the same thing when he spoke to me after my Ministry interview. Unlike you, though, he saw there was no way to change my position on the matter. I wanted to be an Auror, and he offered me a more stable road to reach my goal."  
  
"And are you yet an Auror?" he asked, realizing that her skills--physical finesse, mental brilliancy--had all along been indicative of someone destined to fight the dark arts.  
  
"Not quite. I still have both my eyes, don't I?" she said, indicating one of her fluttering eyelids. "Speaking of which, my real eyes are green. Did you know that?"   
  
"No," he replied, looking into her decidedly greyish eyes.  
  
"They are. And my hair color..." she lifted a coil of chestnut hair from her shoulder and studied it. "...is closer to *your* color. Coal black."  
  
"Coal black," he repeated tonelessly. Was he supposed to be getting something from this?  
  
She pitched towards him, staring at him in a discomforting way. "Now that you know my hair is black, and my eyes are green. . . look at me again. Tell me who sits before you."  
  
He felt compelled to return her stare. Her features were open, filled with something nearing exuberance. He studied her heart-shaped lips, the chin that was just a tiny bit too sharp. "Black..." he murmured, trying to imagine her hair as anything but brown.   
  
"Yes," she said, smiling. "You're on the right track."  
  
"Black?" he said again, this time as a question. And with that single word, all the missing pieces fell into his lap, nearly knocking him backwards. He gaped at her, amazed that he hadn't seen the truth that was before him all along. It seemed so *obvious* now.   
  
"Helena Black?" he asked, his voice not much more than a whisper.   
  
She said nothing. Confirmation was useless at this point; surely she could see realization in the sudden tension of his body. He had never seen her look at him with such gratitude...such warmth. As if in saying her true name, he had broken a deadly fall she had taken. Clearly reveling in his loss of words, she tipped forward even more, until her face was less than a foot from his.   
  
"Thank you," she said, her breath catching. Then, beyond all reason, she brushed her lips against his own.   
  
It was an awkward kiss, overflowing with strange, adolescent shyness. They were both bent forward with their hands stowed in their laps, like two proper ladies at a tea party. It was a kiss given in a moment of uncontainable gratitude--not one born of any emotion resembling lust or love.   
  
But without even realizing he was going to, he brought his fingertips up to the back of her head. He burrowed them through the thickness of her hair and touched her neck directly. At that, a little trill sounded from her throat, and she parted her mouth, intensifying their contact. Encouraged, he ran his tongue along the cleft just under her top lip, feeling her own tongue brush against his--hesitantly at first, then eagerly, as if a hunger was building within her.   
  
Warmth enveloped him like a glove; his skin felt suddenly tight and raw. In a burst of desire, he twined both hands through her hair, pulling her towards him rather roughly. She landed half in his lap and brought her own hand to the side of his face, where it trailed up and down his jaw-line, her mouth still tugging at his bottom lip. Her other hand snaked into the opening of his robes and stroked his bare chest; she paused at his left nipple and thumbed it lightly, eliciting an inner groan from his body.   
  
-Helena? *Helena Black*?...- His mind raced with memories of her--the quiet Ravenclaw, an orphan. The girl who had claimed her parents had been murdered by Voldemort.   
  
"Helena. . ." he murmured against her lips, and momentarily tightened his embrace.   
  
-Helena? Hermione?... But now she's...Hermione?- In a lustful glaze, his mind was trying to re-assert some semblance of order. A flood of memories overtook him, Helena and Hermione overlapping in his head disturbingly, dizziness rising in him out of fear now, rather than passion. He thrust her rudely from his lap, breaking contact entirely.   
  
Away from him now, she looked at him dazedly, her mouth still achingly moist. He forced himself to look elsewhere.  
  
"Miss....Granger" he began, finding himself unable to call her anything else. "This is not a muggle cinema; you are not an ingenue who can breeze into this curmudgeon's life and soften him up."  
  
"But. . ." she paused, and he waited for her to counter with something like 'you started it first'. ". . .Severus," she said, her voice husky. "I have no interest in *softening* you up." With that, she glanced pointedly at his lap, where evidence of his physical arousal was still blazingly visible.  
  
He looked at the ceiling, a soft clicking sound thick in his throat. "Please, just leave me. I think I will try to sleep now."  
  
She was clearly unhappy, but beneath her frown a hint of concern for him showed--the last thing he wanted from her. "Very well," she said, rising up from her chair. "I will see you in class tomorrow, *Professor*."  
  
She left, and in doing so he was forced to bite back all the questions he had for her, all his inquiries as to how she had come here, and why--of all people--she had chosen to confide in him.   
  
**********************  
  
Okay, so we aren't quite in need of a rating upgrade yet. For those of you who have been asking about the pairings in this story, all I can say is I write with no "pairing" goal in mind--I like the characters to surprise even me in that particular area. But...there *will* be steamy action for our main girl....either Snapeish or Siriusly or possibly both. Stay tuned... 


	13. Intangible Affections

**a/n****:  this chapter has been revised so that the content is R-rated, rather than NC-17.  Sorry folks. =(**

**Mine Protector**

**Chapter 13: Intangible Affections**

Hermione left the dungeons feeling only slightly better than she had when she entered. Mostly, she was furious at herself for not maintaining a business-like approach as she spilled her guts to the potions master. She wanted Severus Snape to see her as an equal, a colleague-- if such a thing were possible; now she wasn't certain it was. Behind that dark gaze she saw his mental image of her jump from a teenaged Hermione to a teenaged Helena; the names and coloring were slightly different, but the overall impression was the same.

She paused at the foot of the grand staircase and pressed a hand to her mouth; the lips felt pulpy, her chin scrubbed red by stubble.

She hadn't planned on kissing him, but when he said her name out loud she had felt something go quiet within her, some incomprehensible static that she had kept on full volume to prevent her from acknowledging that true self died down at the sound of her own name being spoken.

At that moment she felt Helena die, too.

Her past and memories remained, of course, but the girl herself--the studious, ever-pleasing girl who hid revenge in her heart like a diabolical pathogen--she was gone. And in her place, there was just Hermione. She gave in to the invention at last, realizing that the invention was nothing more than a better version of herself, after all.

When the kiss between herself and Severus had deepened, had transcended the spur-of-the-moment thank you kiss and taken on more intense shades and movement, she had been surprised, but certainly not displeased. In his embrace she had felt a wild, trembling desire course through his body; the hands that touched her neck had tightened, twisting her hair almost painfully, and she nearly choked on his breath, which came hot and hard into her lungs as if it belonged there. Part of that unbidden desire was for her, but she sensed that another part of him simply wanted to break free of his own internal barriers--clearly he was a man with many.

Still dizzy with the memory of that kiss, she regained her footing on the stairwell. What her body wanted now, more than anything, was sleep--but the VesClotho betrayed her inner rhythms, wiring her mind with fist-clenching adrenaline. A bath was what she needed, and not just any soap-and-bubble bath. The prefects bathroom on the first floor, near the Ravenclaw's dormitory, was outfitted with waters that could make even a band of Cornish pixies drowsy. Wearily, she returned to the first floor and entered a long corridor that, though dim now, would be full of stained-glass infused light come sunrise. She stopped before a large impressionist painting of sunflowers; rather than fluttering in the wind, the flowers seemed to drip and smear paint into all corners of the canvas. "Honeydew," she said, and the painting swung forth on its hinges, revealing the bathroom entrance.

It was rumored that this particular bathroom had been once used as a channeling temple of some sort. In later centuries, Wizards and Witches had become less concerned with religion: some practised paganism, some went the more traditional route of Christianity, and others yet favoured eastern dogmas. With that, the temple had been reverted to a more useful girls' bathroom, luxurious enough to be used only by prefects and staff. Most of the girls, however, favored the prefect's bathroom near the Gryffindor dormitory, which was bright and outfitted with steam rooms and magic-shiatsu tables. In contrast, this former temple resembled an underground grotto more than it did a bathroom.

Stepping into the dimly lit room, steam immediately seeped into Hermione's head, fogging it up with delicious euphoria. The bath here wasn't particularly useful for hygienic purposes; it was actually a large, natural stone pool, fed by a mineral hot spring that ran under the castle. Above the pool, little trickles of water ran down the stone wall, creating a calming patter similar to rain. Wood-hewn candelabras floated a foot or so from the ceiling, dripping wax and throwing yellowy circles of light on the floor.

A wardrobe was at one end of the room, and from it Hermione pulled out one of many fluffy white towels, and, after a moment's thought, removed an equally fluffy robe, as well. She stripped nude and found it quite gratifying to leave her clothes in an untidy heap by the wardrobe. The stone floor should have been cold on her bare feet, but the spring that fed the pool also warmed every stone in the room, and she found that being naked felt quite pleasant. Natural, even, in a place such as this.

After folding the towel and robe onto a dry area a few feet away, she sat herself at the lip of the pool, letting her legs dangle and swish about in the fabulously warm, tingly water. The water had magical properties, no doubt--healing effects, maybe, or perhaps just a hint of tranquilizer to it. She lowered her entire body into the waist high depths, and finally found a stony niche that she could snuggle into quite comfortably while tipping her head back onto a smooth, curved rock.

_I must find time to come here more often. ._ . she thought lazily. Already, the over-loaded circuits of her brain seemed to be winding down, becoming diffused and forgotten as she breathed in the heady steam.

She shrugged down into the water further, letting it lap against her chin. Then her eyes closed of their own volition, and she began to drift. . .

-----

As soon as she began to undress, Sirius regretted his decision to follow Hermione out of the dungeons and into what appeared to be a mind-cleansing, hot spring bath.

A light sleeper by nature (and by force of habit, as he had been on the run in such recent years), Sirius had arose very early on Sunday morning and ventured down to the kitchens, hoping he could sneak some coffee and rolls from the house elves. Before he had made it there, however, he had glimpsed a pale figure making her way to the dungeon entrance, glancing over her shoulder furtively; curious, he followed her. When she stopped inside a classroom, he peeked in long enough to see that the girl was in fact Hermione Granger; she was fully dressed, and appeared to be breaking into a closet, of all things. When a sudden noise alerted Sirius to another person's approach, he quickly pulled back into the dark, hiding behind a tall stone pillar.

It was Severus Snape; dressed in a ridiculous bathrobe, he clearly had caught Hermione red-handed at whatever she was doing.

_Odd...Snape and Hermione seem to be having a lot of run-ins lately... _Sirius thought, remembering the potion master's rampage the day before, when he had seemed bent on finding the girl and tearing her limbs off for lunch.

"I assume you are looking for me, and not ingredients for a new wonder potion?" he heard Snape say in his usual tone of annoyance.

_Wonder potion?_ Sirius had no idea what that was about. In reply to Snape's words, Hermione mumbled something back that Sirius was unable to decipher.

"I see. And this word would be best delivered at the crack of dawn, would it?" Snape's voice came again, and Sirius stepped back with another jolt of surprise. Hermione had actually come down here *looking* for the potions master? Judging by the stories he had heard from Harry and Ron, Sirius had assumed all three of the young Gryffindor's loathed the very cold ground on which Severus Snape walked. Even more confusing, Sirius watched as Hermione was willingly led (by hand!) into what could only be Snape's private quarters. Once the stones closed up behind them, Sirius crept up to the wall and put his ear to it. The wall was thick, though, and he heard nothing.

Worried for Hermione, Sirius briefly toyed with the idea of forcing his way into the room, or perhaps even fetching Dumbledore. But those words, "wonder potion", kept re-surfacing in his head. When he had stopped Snape in the hallways yesterday, the man had been ranting sheer lunacy about a mysterious 'something' that Hermione had done to him. Sirius himself had seen nothing wrong with the man--he had looked quite fit and rested, actually--but Snape had insisted that his appearance had been altered. Indeed, he had seemed utterly disgusted when Sirius was unable to comprehend any difference in his physical self.

Had Snape's behavior yesterday been somehow affected by a potion of Hermione's making? Amused, Sirius wondered if the girl had tried to poison the man, but somehow an act that cruel seemed against her nature entirely. What was more likely was that she had been working on a new potion--for extra credit perhaps--and when Snape had tested it, it must have had unexpected and unpleasant results.

That still didn't explain why she went looking for a former death-eater before dawn, though.

Half an hour or so later, Sirius saw Hermione leave Snape's lair, clearly alive and in one piece. Head down, she seemed somewhat distraught; even though the stone pillar failed to hide him completely, she didn't sense him watching her retreat. The girl had irrefutable reflexes, though, and before following her again, Sirius murmured a quick camouflage charm, one which would render him invisible to her eyes, should she sense him behind her. It was a little trick he had picked up when he escaped from Azkaban--it wasn't as good as an invisibility cloak, since it only rendered him visually imperceptible to one person at a time, but it was helpful in getting out of sticky situations, nonetheless.

At first, it seemed as if Hermione was going to head up to the second floor--to the Gryffindor dormitory, perhaps. Upon reaching the first landing, however, she paused, hand held to her mouth, and stood still for several minutes. Afraid she might have heard him, Sirius waited at the foot of the stairs, virtually holding his breath. When she began backing down the staircase, his throat tightened; he pressed himself against a wall, trying to make himself as flat as possible. She brushed by within inches of him.

_Now where is she off to?_ Unable to stifle his curiosity, he followed her down a hallway, one which he vaguely remembered as leading to the Charms classroom back in his day. She paused before a painting that Sirius didn't recognize and muttered a password. When she disappeared through the revealed entrance, he had no time to debate the proper course of action--he promptly pursued her through the door, and the painting very nearly slammed shut on his heels.

The room he found himself in was like nothing he had ever seen before. He'd heard rumors of fabulous prefect-only bathrooms scattered throughout the castle, but had never imagined that such facilities would include what looked to be a mineral hot spring. Though the room was dim and windowless, it was anything but gloomy; the moist air entered his nostrils and he breathed in deep, feeling relaxation wash over him.

_A tranquility spring?_ he wondered, and his attention was caught by a soft rustling sound from the other end of the room. Stepping through the curtain of steam, he was greeted with the site of Hermione slipping out of her sweatshirt, revealing a white slice of her back.

_Shit!_ He quickly backed away, and found himself once again pressed up against a wall. Unfortunately, the steam wasn't nearly thick enough to obscure his vision completely. Additionally, the painting couldn't serve as an exit without drawing her attention, and he cursed himself for having the stupidity to follow her in the first place. Now he was crouched in the corner like a peeping-tom pervert, watching an underage student prepare to bathe; if he wasn't so led by his protective instincts, he might not be in this mess.

But he was a man, after all. And though he tried valiantly to force his eyes away from her slowly undressing form, he found he could not help but stare. Her naked back told him that she had worn no brassiere, and peeling off her jeans exposed a pair of perfectly innocent, powder-blue knickers.

_Only sixteen..and she's one of Harry's best friends. DO NOT look at her like that, you fool..._

But he looked anyway. She slung her underclothes off completely, leaving them in an unbecoming heap on the floor. Her back was still to him, and he forgot his budding arousal enough to admire her physical architecture on a purely aesthetic level: her hips still had a girlish narrowness to them, but her legs were long and well-built; the shoulders were on the broad side, but as she brushed aside her hair he saw that her neck had a smooth elegance. In all, she had a poise that belied her youth; to him she looked very strong--inside and out.

She slipped into the bath and appeared to fall into a deep state of relaxation. She became so still that he wondered for a moment if he could sneak out of the room without her noticing; then perhaps he could finally get his coffee and forget he had ever gone on this ridiculous venture. But before he could even think to plot out an exit that wouldn't give him away, he came to the startling realization that she was, in fact, *asleep*. She had lowered into the water so far that it now washed up against her slightly parted mouth, and her eyelids were twitching, as if she were entering a dream state.

_If she doesn't wake up, she could completely submerge and drown in her sleep._ He'd heard of such things happening; when asleep, it was possible to drown in even a few inches of water. Most wizarding household bathtubs had charms to prevent such accidents, of course, but he was unsure as to whether a natural hot-spring would be equipped with such safety features.

"Hermione..." he whispered loudly, hoping to penetrate her subconscious."Wake up!"

There was no sign that she'd heard him; indeed, even as he watched she seemed to be sinking by tiny fractions--his eyes might have been playing tricks on him, but his concern did not falter.

_Just wade in and pull her out...prop her up and then get the hell out of here!_

He splashed in as quietly as possible, and as the water seeped through his clothing, he felt his muscles shudder pleasantly, and a warmth seemed to spread out into every nerve of his body--even the parts that were still dry. Oh Lords, even he wanted to sink down and sleep on the spot! Clearly, this pool wasn't one meant to be visited alone, and so early in the morning at that. Standing, he bent over her drowsing head, intending to shake her up by the shoulders as gently as possible. Hesitating only for a moment, he reached for her. . . and then her eyes blinked open.

Before he could stop himself, he leaped back in surprise; a small wave washed over her and she sat upright, sputtering slightly. She looked around druggedly, now clearly aware she wasn't alone, but unable to focus her eyes on who or what had splashed her with water.

"Is someone there?" she said softly, more alert now. He backed away slowly...but damn, little ripples were radiating out from where his legs were moving. She watched the water's course with interest, looking not particularly alarmed. "Who's there?" she said again, standing up carefully. She turned in a circle, her arms searching out blindly.

Sirius gulped inaudibly; she was now nude from the lower hips upward, and very, very close to him. He froze in place, unable to stop staring, silently praying that she would dismiss him as nothing more than an invasive dream. But no, she was still reaching out, directly in front of him so that he could see her wide, dilated hazel eyes, and the few wet tendrils that clung to her cheeks and neck. The fingers moved closer, mere inches away from his torso.

_Run!_ he thought frantically. _Who cares what she thinks....just jump out of the water and go!_

But the dreadful, hypnotizing water seemed to sedate him on the spot, and he found himself unable to move, even as her hand brushed up against his ribcage, then paused and pressed, finding firm purchase.

She gasped and stared straight through his invisible face, her eyes fluttered back and forth as she tried to compute why she could feel the form of a human body, but saw no one.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice thick with incomprehension. She ran her fingers up and down his chest tentatively, which was quivering as he tried valiantly to still his breath. He finally clutched one of her hands and pushed it away, willing her to leave, to forget that she had found him out. But she only squeezed his bare hand in her own, her expression far away now, as if she were finally making some sense of his invisible presence.

"No cloak..." she murmured.

_Oh God, did she think I was Harry?_

Whatever she had thought before, she now seemed completely unafraid, and looked in his general vicinity with an air of deepening affection.

"Is it you?" she asked, still clinging to his hand, her voice hopeful.

_Oh hell...she thinks I'm someone...someone specific..._ His mind went dizzy; who on earth could a sixteen year old girl be expecting to spy on her in the bath? Another Prefect, perhaps? Or was her mind still in a dream-state? The moist, endless quality of her eyes suggested that she might be in a trance of some sort. He hoped...prayed that this was the case.

Sirius was now painfully aware that a naked young woman was standing a mere foot from him, her not-quite smallish breasts tipping up towards him, the rosy nipples taut despite the warmth of the room. He had engaged in occasional sexual dalliances while on the run from Azkaban, and each of them had been hollow, desperate acts in which he tried to re-connect with some aspect of humanity lost to him--attempts to jump-start his emotions in some way that went beyond fear and pain. Each of those occasions had resulted in short-lived relief; the agony and loneliness always came back to haunt him in the end--especially at night.

And now this woman--girl, really--was standing before him, strange desire in her eyes, hair smelling clean and delicious, and, wonder of wonders, she was pressing his hand to her damp cheek, which felt feverish to the touch. He quivered with something other than anxiety as she ran his hand down the pale length of her neck; his fingertips read out the arc of her collar bone, then voluntarily slipped to the top of her breast, finally cupping the entire warm sweetness of it, pressing the pliable flesh up and into her slightly.

_STOP!_ he ordered himself, thinking of how she would react if she knew it was her Defence instructor who was cupping her breast; what Harry would do if he knew his own Godfather was fondling his best friend; what Ron Weasley would do if he knew Sirius was touching his would-be girlfriend in such lustful fashion . . .

He betrayed his own mind's orders and caressed the nipple with his forefinger, an act which caused her to moan and blindly pull his free hand to her other breast. Even while his conscience was screaming at him to stop, he continued to move his hands, her quickening breath inspiring him onward. In like, he felt a *woosh* of heat run through him as parts of his own anatomy hardened dramatically. The expression on her face was truly something else--because she couldn't see him, perhaps, she whimpered and kept her eyes wide open, and they fluttered and rolled back as he intensified his movements--a reaction he found incredibly erotic, seeing as how most women he had been with closed their eyes chastely, so that he was unable to read the level of pleasure reflected in their gaze.

_Those were other women...WOMEN! And this is a girl. STOP NOW STOP NOW..._ the rational man in him begged on.

_She responds as if she's been touched this way before_, his more animal side thought idly, surprised that studious Hermione Granger had obviously let a male touch her in such an personal way--enough times so that she was fully uninhibited in displaying her arousal.

As if reading his thoughts, she guided his hands down and around her waist, then lower until he was savoring her firm posterior. Leaving him there, she spread her own hands across his chest, working up and down the smooth musculature of his torso, apparently amazed to feel out the physicality of a man she could not see. Then she found his hands again and urged them down further, further.... He'd never approached a woman's body like this before, with his hand wrapped *behind* her and essentially buried in the cleft of her backside and reaching forth to relish her warmth, and as she painstakingly pressed her hips into his clothed but burgeoning erection, he felt his mind unravel senselessly, a sweet, electric sensation running up his calves and into his bucking pelvis.

A tiny groan escaped his lips--the first noise he'd made in her presence. She smiled blissfully in response, and brought one of her hands up to his face, allowing it to linger there for a moment.

Then he felt her touch go cold. She stopped gyrating against him, and the smile melted from her face, all the flush going out of her cheeks at once as she went a deadly white. Though his physical arousal remained, Sirius felt anxiety bulldoze over him; apparently, one touch to his face had been enough to rouse her from her sensual trace, or it had identified him as someone other than the dream-lover she had been envisioning. His skin went icy as he realized the severity of his situation; he still had his fingers in a very _intimate_ region, and she was quickly stiffening up in fury, preparing to rip herself away from his grasp.

He backed off, quite terrified that she might start screaming--or worse, strike out at him. Deep regret and guilt washed over him, so that he thought he might soon be sick; how could he allow himself to be tempted by her--a student, a personal friend, really--someone he would never, for the life of him, want to hurt. He had taken advantage of her as she stood before him in a state of semi-consciousness, hadn't he? By all the Gods he would surely pay tenfold for what he had just done.

_Forgive me, Hermione....please, forgive me..._ he pleaded silently, even as her eyes narrowed in enragement at her hidden abuser.

"Whoever you are...get out of here," she hissed, virtually shaking with anger. "GET OUT!" she screamed, and her voice echoed off the stone walls, making him wince--it felt for all the world like the most deadly of the unforgivable curses.

She didn't have to ask him twice. He scampered from the pool and ran to the sunflower painting, leaving a trail of water behind him, and a flood of despair and shame with that.

-----

She hadn't meant to fall asleep, but it was pure heaven to let her body sink into a blissful coma, up to her neck in water scented with lavender and sage. She wasn't worried about it--if her face was somehow immersed, the stone cleft she was nestled into was enchanted to quake powerfully, shaking her from her stupor. In fact, she worried about very little as the warmth swept through her limbs, a sweet anesthesia that seemed to transform her very blood into a dense, slow-moving syrup.

Through closed eyes, she had felt a penetrating gaze upon her, and though she knew something was wrong, that she was supposed to be alone, it took several minutes before she could force her eyes to open.

There had been nothing there--or so she had thought. Then she noticed the circular swishing of the water, and could sense something...*someone*....moving towards the edge of the pool.

_A man?__ An invisible man? _

Touching him suggested realness, but what if this were nothing of the sort? What if she had conjured him in her sleep, brought her fantasy forth in real life with the mere power of her thoughts? She had heard of incubi--unseen demon-imps conjured by the pheromones of young girls, who sought cruel satisfaction of their depraved lusts. But this was no demon; she could feel his heart thrumming beneath her palms. Whoever he was, he was on the verge of flight.

A snatch of conversation drifted back to her....

_*Did you try a bath?...I find that a bath helps with the insomnia...*_

Had Snape decided to join her? Dismissing the invisibility factor, a mental image of him seemed to rise out of the steam before her, and she sleepily drew his hands to her body, guiding his touch in ways she had only done in her most private fantasies. His erection nudged against her, and quickened breath signaled his fast-rising desire, his need to possess her. Pleased, she stroked his obscured face.

Then her body had seized up. She didn't know how, but the set of this man's jaw told her he was NOT Severus Snape. The hands that were gently caressing her--as if she were made of spun glass--could belong to anyone. Gentle hands, they whispered a promise never to hurt her. And they could belong to anyone.

_Anyone...anyone!_ her mind echoed. Male faces shuffled before her eyes: Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Lucius Malfoy, Barty Crouch, Voldemort....men capable of betrayal and pain.

_ANYONE!_ She shoved the man from her, screaming at him to get away. And whoever he was, he was frightened. She heard him run from her as if she were capable of disembowelment or worse.

A few minutes later, she found herself struggling to pull clothing over her still wet skin, sobbing uncontrollably, her mind still refusing to fully wake up even after all she had endured.

She lowered to the floor and bent into herself like a child, wondering how someone so smart could do something so stupid.


	14. The Difficult Part

Mine Protector  
  
Chapter 14: The Difficult Part  
  
Each morning her eyes opened to the same thing: the slight swaying of Gryffindor-red bed hangings, prompted into life by the draft that leaked in through the rounded window above her head.  In those moments, dreams were teetering on the cusp of her mind--floating images that were kaleidoscopic in color and clarity, merging from time to time to create a picture that she could almost put a name to....almost.  It was like a taste on her tongue she could just barely savor before it receded away, leaving only her own disappointingly familiar breath and saliva behind.   
  
The same thing happened when Hermione tried to remember the man who had touched her during her ill-attempted bath...somehow her skin had memorized that touch--the ragged calluses on his thumb and wand fingers, for example-- but her mind had nothing visual to reference.  His face had felt like any other face--warm, expressive, and made of human flesh.  Though as several days passed she questioned the very reality of what had happened.  Was it possible she had merely experienced a VERY tactile, lucid dream?  She might have thought so, if she didn't so clearly remember the sound of him running from her. Since when did dreams flee from the dreamer?  Or seem to fear the dreamer, at that?  
  
-First vaguely threatening notes....now an invisible spy, if that's what he was...- She frowned at the prospect.  If he was a spy, he hadn't wanted to hurt her; of that much she was certain.   
  
So what *did* he want, then?   
  
Ordinarily, the tugging stress of this situation might have threatened to undo her, but she found that she wasn't particularly worried.  She may have mourned the death of the old Helena--it was the girl she had been in her youth, after all--but she most certainly did not mourn the death of Helena's all-encompassing, bottled-up insecurities.  As a result, she approached the situation with a refreshing pragmatism, figuring the best thing she could do was continue on with her training.   
  
-Constant vigilance...- she thought, somewhat sourly, echoing the words of Alastor Moody. Whatever was happening, she didn't doubt she could handle it.   
  
Not to mention that other things were occupying her thoughts.  Like Anaemus, for one.  
  
"Albus, the Anaemus...there's so many questions I have about it....them.." she trailed off, looking up at him from where she sat, which at the moment was in a roll-up chair that she'd pulled up to Dumbledore's library books.  The floor-to-ceiling shelves circled much of the room, and Hermione suspected that he had many others stored back in his private quarters, as well.  But what he had in his office was enough to make her head spin; the smell of ancient dust and binding was a potent magic in its own right.  
  
"I imagined you would," he said, the lines around his eyes deepening as he smiled.  He rose from his desk and moved to join her at the bookshelves.  He placed a casual hand on her shoulder and squeezed slightly, a motion that sent warmth over her body like a soothing balm.  Albus Dumbledore was the closest thing she'd had to a parent throughout much of her life; physical contact from him was rare, but when it was freely given she felt an unspoken flood of fondness for the old man--and maybe even something like love.   
  
"I believe I told you that no publicly known Anaemus writings are in existence today. ...did I not?"  He remarked, not unkindly.   
  
"I remember," she said, nodding.  Though silently she still held out hope that there must be a book somewhere that would give her some insight into her new-found abilities (which, to be fair, she had been unable to re- create in the week since she had contained and returned that curse, nearly knocked Albus Dumbledore into unconsciousness).  
  
"What I did *not* tell you is that there is at least one of these non- publicly known writings in my very possession," he continued, and she glanced upwards at him in surprise.  He had his familiar all-knowing expression in place, and it appeared that he was struggling not to clap his hands together in excitement.  
  
"You mean a secret text....written by an Anaemus?" she asked, allowing a little bit of hope to creep into her voice.  
  
"Not exactly..." he paused, looking a tiny bit deflated.  "The Anaemus weren't collectively in favor of having their beliefs and practices recorded.  They believed that to do so would betray the magic on which their knowledge was based."  
  
Mulling this over, Hermione felt herself grow increasingly perplexed by his statement.  Throughout the ages, witches and wizards had passed on the secrets of magic primarily through books.  Books were the tomes that unlocked the survival techniques necessary to fight the dark arts, to maintain the progression of magical discovery, to recreate complex potion recipes, to record newly discovered magical creatures, and more--in short, books were the foundation of almost all mystic beliefs.  Just what kind of witches and wizards would object to books, to the passing of vital knowledge on to future generations?  
  
"The Anaemus weren't..." she began, uncertain how to phrase her concerns.  "...they weren't like the death-eaters, were they?"  
  
"How do you mean, my dear?" he asked, looking at her curiously.  
  
"I mean...they didn't want to restrict knowledge from reaching others, I hope?  They didn't have ridiculous notions about ancestry and blood and who was more *deserving* of magical skill, did they?"  
  
The old man shook his head vigorously, and in that action his beard brushed against the top of her head as if to emphasize his point.  "Good heavens no, child." he said, much to her relief.  "They merely believed that Anaemus magic was too powerful to be taught in traditional practice.  To them, the uses of Anaemus varied greatly from person to person....thus they also felt to describe it would be fruitless.  But really, there's even more to it than that.  Please....wait for me a moment."  And with that, he approached one of his many bookcases; there, he pulled a large blue book out a few inches, then pushed it back with little ceremony.  Following a massive *creak*, the bookcase swiveled like a turnstile, and her headmaster disappeared into a room that was just beyond her line of vision.   
  
When Dumbledore entered the office again, he had nothing more than an elderly-looking scroll in his hand--this disappointed Hermione a little, as she had been hoping for one or more very fat books on the subject of Anaemus magic.  He handed it to her wordlessly, and upon closer inspection she found that the scroll was *very* old, indeed; the parchment was soft to the touch, as if it had been unrolled and handled for many years, and the ink was quite smudgy in spots.  Worse yet, the entire thing was penned in untranslated Latin.   
  
"This is heavy reading...even for me," she remarked, squinting at the spidery-fine writing.  Whoever wrote the scroll had impeccable penmanship, certainly, but it was also impossibly tiny.  It took her nearly a minute just to read the title, which she roughly translated as: "The Forms of Anaemus: A Speculative History".   
  
"Ahem..." Dumbledore cleared his throat lightly, then tapped the scroll with his wand, instantly transfiguring it into a small, hand-bound booklet that was printed in neat typeface, and completely, expertly translated.   
  
"Wow.  Very nice!" She exclaimed, turning the booklet over in her hands.  "But how...?"  
  
"A Dumbledore's privilege, Hermione," he replied, then again with the tip of his wand gestured at the titled page.  Following his motion, she saw that the author of the booklet was one Galway Redd Dumbledore the Third.  "A long-dead cousin of mine," he explained, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  "Several times removed, of course."  
  
"An Anaemus?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Perhaps," he mused, rocking from side to side a little.  "Or perhaps just a fan.  But I find that his theories are less....convoluted....than any others I've come across.  But I'm afraid even Galway's deconstruction of the Anaemus is on the heavy-duty side.  Considering that, I'm thankful that he only wrote a half-roll of parchment's worth."  
  
She fingered the newly-bound booklet, admiring the silky cover.  "May I take this from your office, Albus?" she asked, not certain he would grant her permission to do so--especially since the text was a Dumbledore family heirloom of sorts.   
  
"Of course," he said.  "What you hold in your hand is just a copy, so keep it as long as you like.  I have the original in a private vault."  
  
"You don't think reading something of this nature will attract the attention of other students?"  She asked, a little surprised that he had agreed with so little argument.  
  
"If any other student at Hogwarts has heard of Anaemus--which I doubt--they would assume this book to be little more than fantastical pulp novel," he assured, looking mostly unconcerned.  "Though you may want to take care that none of your professors see you reading up on Anaemus.  To do so is certainly not forbidden...but it may cause them to wonder."  
  
"I suppose so," she said softly, focusing her gaze on Fawkes, who was looking at her from his cage steadily.  He was in his resplendent stage, all fiery and crimson plumage.  
  
"Ahh, so it's come to this.....there already *is* someone at Hogwarts who wonders about you."  
  
His voice came from behind her, gentle as always, but a shiver journeyed down the length of her spine nonetheless.  
  
"He *was* wondering about me," she replied, her gaze still held to Fawkes.  "But I don't think he is now....not any longer."  
  
"He knows, then."  
  
"Yes."  She sighed, finally gathering the will to turn and meet Dumbledore's eyes, which searched her without accusation...only concern.  "Severus Snape knows who Hermione Granger is....who she really is.  Or was, I should say."   
  
"I see," he said simply.   
  
She swallowed, tasting faint sourness.  She couldn't leave it there, not like that.  This was Albus--the only real confident she'd ever had.  The man who had an appetite for curry that matched her own, who understood her own apparent inability to match her socks or part her hair properly.  Hesitantly, she continued on:  "He didn't seem particularly shocked at my revelation.  Uncomfortable, yes, but I...I almost think he *wanted* me to confide in him.  Though I don't know why.  Even before--before Hermione, I mean--he didn't seem to like me much.  But I never felt that he didn't *not* care."  At her own words, she felt bewilderment spread across her face like a fever.  "Am I making any sense?" she asked, fearing that she wasn't at all.  
  
"Yes, Severus does care," he replied, his voice oddly dry.  "He hides it well, for reasons of his own, but he does care.  And so do I."  
  
"Oh, I know that," she said abruptly, then drew back slightly when she saw that the Headmaster's usually cheerful, benign expression had shifted into one of....quiet sadness?  Or resignation?  What was it?   
  
"I fear I've done you a great disservice," he said gravely.  "I owe you an apology...Hermione."  
  
She blinked.  Before she could think of a response, he went on.  
  
"When I recruited you into the order, I told myself I was giving you an opportunity for a better life, for the chance to use your talents in a productive and helpful manner.  I thought--"  
  
"But you did give me all those things!" she interrupted, though her mind was wracked with confusion.  All these years...she had feared nothing more than letting Albus Dumbledore down, and now he was acting as if it were *he* who had done wrong against *her*.  
  
He smiled slightly, though the expression did not reach his eyes.  "Yes and no," he said.  "Your talents and skills have benefited enormously, that much is obvious.  But I'm afraid I behaved rather selfishly when it came to matters of your personal well being.  I ignored your youth, for one.  And I never stopped to think what a lonely position yours would be...charading as someone you are not, pretending to be years younger than you actually are.  It must have been....incredibly difficult."  
  
"It wasn't." She shook her head, unable to stop the lie from leaving her mouth.   
  
He smiled again, genuine this time.  "We both know that's not true," he said, and she felt his words echo in her chest as if she had said them herself, a whisper of something he had once said to her in the past.  What was it?   
  
*Voldemort's dead... *  
  
*We both know that's not true... *  
  
Perhaps the memory of that exchange should have chilled her, but it did not.  She straightened up in her chair, tapping Galway's booklet against her chin a little bit, then finally said:  "Very well...it is true.  But only a little.  My life has a focus now--after years of feeling helpless and angry, I finally feel as if I'm doing something to the benefit of both myself and others.   And...I know they're both younger than me, but Harry and Ron are my friends.  Looking back it seems funny that I had to go through school a second time to find real friends, but that's just what they are."  She paused and smiled a little, thinking of those two boys-- young men now, really--who seemed so much younger than her on occasion, who had now and then driven her completely batty with their thoughtless antics, but who had nonetheless proved themselves to be strong, loyal, and determined, time and time again.   
  
"I could never tell them the truth about myself, though.  Never.  That's the difficult part..." she finished, those last words nearly a whisper.  
  
  
  
---  
  
  
  
As he expected, Severus Snape was summoned to Dumbledore's office shortly before Saturday's afternoon tea-time; after finding Hermione near Dumbledore's office last week, Severus had correctly surmised that she and the headmaster engaged in some type of private meeting on most weekend afternoons.  Hoping to avoid a run-in with her on the long trek up from the dungeons, Snape opted to travel by floo powder into Dumbledore's fireplace, in front of which he found the old wizard himself slouched into a comfortable armchair, puffing on a long, ivory pipe.   
  
"I was indulging, Severus," Dumbledore said, blowing smoke-rings in response to Snape's look of disapproval.  "Can I tempt you?"  
  
"Certainly not."  Snape wrinkled his nose faintly, though he wouldn't have so quickly refused if the headmaster had offered him something along the lines of a stiff scotch.  
  
"Any changes this week, then?" Dumbledore asked pointedly, his eyes flitting to Snape's arm; the dark mark, which was burned in to the tender flesh just inside the crook of his elbow, was plainly visible below the rolled-up sleeve of his black and green robes.   
  
"Their search continues," Snape said flatly.  "As I've told you before, they suspect that someone close to Potter must be removed.  Only this time, they have the rather genius idea of *not* going after the boy himself, and are settling for anyone who might stand in their way."  
  
"Hmmm..." Dumbledore murmured, sucking on his pipe thoughtfully.   
  
"I had assumed that the person they were looking for was Sirius Black, since I am certain Pettigrew must have explained Black's relationship with the boy to Voldemort."  
  
Dumbledore met Snape's penetrating gaze.  "You *had* assumed, Severus?  I take it that you no longer feel Black is a target, then?"  
  
"Oh yes, Black is a target," Snape replied silkily, allowing a bit of accusation to enter his words.  "I merely had the wrong Black in mind all along, didn't I?"    
  
"You speak of Hermione."  Dumbledore continued to smoke, seeming unconcerned.  
  
"You mean *Helena*," Snape spat, suddenly pushing his sleeve down, wanting to hide that mark...ridiculously worried that it might announce her name, and the outline of her very face, right into Voldemort's head, no matter how many miles away he might be.    
  
"She's not the girl you remember anymore, Severus," Dumbledore said, his voice irritatingly rational--the kind of voice one might use on a tantrumy child.  "She's a grown woman who has done as much for Harry Potter as any of us.  Maybe more."  
  
"More?" Snape asked, astounded.  "How can you say that?  Because of Potter I've been stunned, humiliatingly levitated while unconscious, had my robes set ablaze--"  
  
"Yes, Severus, I know," Dumbledore interrupted.  "Because you willingly took on the role of the intimidating authority figure.  Just as I am the sage advisor, and Sirius the replacement father.  
  
"And Hel---Hermione?  What is her role, then?  Potter's brainy accomplice?  One-third of the terrible trio?"  Snape did his best to sound bitter, but the words were only half-heartedly so.   
  
Dumbledore's expression warmed, as if sensing that Snape's temper was tepid and fast-fading.  "Not an accomplice, but an ally of a very unique sort.  I'm sure you remember that she has experienced a great loss similar to Harry's," he pointed out, and Snape reddened slightly.  "Additionally, both Harry and Hermione were born with certain gifts that will no doubt be a burden to them throughout their lives; I imagine they will be glad they have one another to rely on in the years to come."  
  
"Gifts?" Snape implored.  "I'll admit that the girl is incredibly bright-- thought it's unfortunate that she's so gloatingly aware of her cleverness.  But Potter is only a slightly-above average young wizard, and that's with Hermione whispering the correct ingredients to him during potion exams."  
  
"Aha," Dumbledore said, brightening.  "I see that you have finally recognized her true talents at potion-making, then?  
  
"I will admit that she is somewhat inclined towards the practice...she did get a perfect score on her midterm."  
  
"Severus..." Dumbledore began, his eyes laughing silently.  "I was referring to your recent age-regression.  You caught her making VesClotho, didn't you?"  
  
"Yes," Snape said, unable to hide his surprise.  "How did you know?"  
  
"She told me, of course."  
  
"Oh?" Snape asked dully, wondering what else Hermione might have told Dumbledore about their recent run-ins.  His fingers knotted together at the memory of the hair that had brushed against his knuckles, glossy and fire- lit.  He steered his mind towards more familiar territory.  "So you knew about VesClotho, then.  That explains where she got the phoenix tears," he said, glancing at the snoozing Fawkes.  
  
"Yes, I did."  Dumbledore looked at Fawkes too, apparently admiring his loyal familiar.  "Before I accepted Hermione into the order, I told her she would have to prove herself as willing and able to train as an Auror.  As a test, I asked her to concoct a disguise convincing enough to transform her into a Hogwart's student--a disguise that could represent her from ages eleven to eighteen."  
  
"And she invented VesClotho?"  
  
"She did," Dumbledore said, chewing on the end of his now burned-out pipe.  "I wasn't expecting her to come up with something so sophisticated.  Or so brand new, for that matter.  I thought she would merely research up on the glamour charms used by Ministry Aurors, but the VesClotho lasts much longer than any glamour--and the confundus effect is helpful, too."  
  
"Until it reverts onto your own body," Snape said sourly, not at all looking forward to the paranoia and confusion that apparently came with the territory of VesClotho.   
  
"You'll be fine, Severus," Dumbledore predicted, his smile knowing.  "Now why don't you tell me what's really bothering you?  Are you upset that I did not inform you of Hermione's identity and purpose earlier?"  
  
Snape hesitated.  He thought he had been angry for that very reason, but now he wasn't so sure.  Dumbledore wasn't in the habit of letting *anyone* see all the cards that he held--the only cards necessary were the ones that got the job done, after all.  Being left out of Dumbledore's great plan wasn't too much of a blow….-the real problem is that I now know more than I want to..  More than I feel comfortable with.-   
  
"That's not it, Albus," Snape said slowly.  "What concerns me is that I now know the name of the one whom the death-eaters seek.  The fact that I have this information may very well put Hermione in danger.  What if the dark mark allows Voldemort and his followers direct access to my mind, and in there they see her true purpose, and from there they may hunt her down..." he trailed off helplessly, gazing at his own palms as if he found them untrustworthy.  
  
"You're worried about her," Dumbledore implored, though his expression said that the old wizard himself was more concerned for Severus than Hermione.  
  
Snape checked himself again, aware that there was a snippish remark on the end of his tongue that he couldn't bear to give voice to.  "Yes," he finally admitted, swallowing the knee-jerk sarcasm away.  
  
"Severus, Hermione knows that she couldn't work alongside Harry all these years and remain un-noticed.  She has been hard at work, preparing for the day when Voldemort and his followers recognize her vital role in our defenses.  If the death-eaters seek her out, I doubt it will be because her true name is imprinted into your consciousness."  The old man searched out Snape's expression briefly, then continued on:  "I hope that one day you will see your mind as something other than a connection to Voldemort and your past, Severus.  Your mind has, after all, helped us more than you will ever know."  
  
Snape sighed, and was compelled to look away.  To voice his doubts would be of no use; the headmaster would be sure to have the last word, as usual.  If only his doubts didn't number so highly--then the conversation between himself and Dumbledore might have actually put him at ease, if for only a moment.  
  
  
  
-----  
  
  
  
At the very same time that Dumbledore and Snape were speaking of her welfare, Hermione was curled up in a common-room armchair, trying valiantly to conceptualize the written words of Galway Redd Dumbledore the Third.  The headmaster had not been joking when he had called the reading 'heavy', but there were at least a few passages that struck Hermione as particularly resonate, and she spoke them silently in her mind for several minutes:  
  
   
  
//The worldly elements that surround us are nameless and voiceless, to be dispensed by human hand or not.  When elements are given a name, their meaning is shaped, and the resulting words create a quilt that defines a particular human system.  A certain element may be named "fire", for example, and through its use becomes associated with heat, pain, and even renewal (see: phoenix), depending on the context in which the element is employed.//  
  
//Just as religious language serves the needs of a church, Wizards and Witches have a similar system of language that quilts together the values of the magical community--thus the need for incantations in spell-casting, the need for naming potions and magical creatures, and so on.  Before a summoning charm could be utilized and taught in a universal manner, the Wizarding community had to shape and define that element with the creation of a specific word: 'accio'.//  
  
//To practitioners of Anaemus, the nameless elements of our world lose power once relegated and systematized in human contexts.  To use the elements and accept them as nameless is to work a purer form of magic that exists outside the restrictive naming system.  Elements are though to be more powerful when they remain nameless, because they are then free from the potential abuses of humans who have been known to wield magic in the name of greed and corruption.  The wizarding community that named the relatively benign "accio" has, after all, named countless other elements in the name of harm and destruction.//  
  
  
  
Before now, Hermione hadn't taken much time to consider the relevance of words and incantations in spell-casting.  Even as a child, she knew that "accio" was the word that summoned, just as surely as she knew a chair was a something comfortable to sit in, or that a Unicorn was a very rare and magical creature.  The language behind magic had always just seemed to be a part of her, like how slightly turned-out ears and double-jointed thumbs were just *facts* about her body--things she was born with for reasons unclear even to her, or perhaps for no reason at all.  It was quite startling to realize that the wizarding world she had grown up in had also invented words like Crucio and Avada Kedavra; words that they were willing to call 'unforgivable', but were still willing to use, under certain circumstances.  Somewhat troubled, she read on:  
  
//To discover ones Anaemus abilities is no self-conscious act of discovery; rather, one most typically discovers such ability by accident, at a moment when the will or self is at a critical breaking point--this being because only surrender from order can call the nameless to a wizard or witches side.  This humble author would like to apologize for such an obtuse definition, but to clarify this in any clearer terms would of course be anathema to the very existence of the nameless.  Because of this paradox, the phenomena of practicing Anaemus remains a somewhat of a modern-day mystery.  According to myth, however, the nameless often first assist an unaware wizard or witch in moments of great personal distress or life- altering experience.  But it is rarer that the wizard or witch even comprehends what has happened--if they do happen to comprehend, and are of the right temperament, they may be considered Anaemus material.//   
  
Hermione squinted at the paragraph before her and let out a muted sigh.  Her discovery of Anaemus magic had certainly been accidental, but she didn't understand how her experience could be perceived as a "critical breaking point".  She had been in the middle of a training session with Dumbledore, something she had done on countless occasions; she had never feared for her life or health during such training sessions--in fact, the headmaster was one of the few who she had ever felt truly safe around--so why had she flung Dumbledore's attack back on him?   
  
"Heavy reading?" a voice implored, coming from somewhere behind her.  It was Harry, and before she even turned around she could tell from his tone that he was weary--no doubt from the vigorous Quidditch practices that he himself had captained.   
  
"Not really," she said, flipping Galway the Third's booklet shut.  "Just some information about ancient magics that might come in handy for the N.E.W.T.s."  He stared at her dubiously, which caused her to add: "Well, you never do know, Harry!  It doesn't hurt to be prepared."  
  
"All you do is study lately."  He pouted dramatically to indicate he was joking, but she knew that his expression must be veiling real hurt.  She *had* been busy, after all.  It was just that Ron and Harry assumed she was busy in the usual Hermione-way: studying, brown-nosing to professors, more studying.   
  
"I know," she admitted, softening.  "Look, let me run up and change my clothes, and then we'll play some exploding snap before supper.  What do you say?"  
  
"Sounds good," he said, grinning, and she was momentarily taken by the simple beauty of that gesture.     
  
"Back in a flash," she said, and hurried off to her dormitory.  Climbing the stairs, it struck her as remarkable that after all that Harry had been through, and after all that was expected of him, he could still laugh and smile over the smallest of pleasures in a manner that was nothing but genuine.  At this thought, she felt buoyant with admiration for him--and equally shamed to realize that there were dozens of things about herself that she could never, ever tell him.  
  
Burdened by this thought, she entered her room and sat on the bed, pulling a sleeping Crookshanks over to her lap.  The room was hazy with early- winter sunlight, and the first fire of the season had been lit in the small fireplace, infusing the air with a crisp, piney scent.  Lavender was on her own extremely-pillowed bed, painting her toenails with a cosmetic colour- wand, and Parvati sat at her desk writing in what was most certainly a very- secret diary.  Finding that the room was particular cozy today, Hermione felt the burden wash away.  Looking forward to exploding snap, she opened her wardrobe in search of something appropriate for dinner, not because jeans were inappropriate attire for a Saturday night, but because as a prefect she was always expected to look at least somewhat sharpishly dressed for all-school events.  Her clothes hung like silent girl-ghosts: modest skirts and scholarly sweater vests.  –Ugh-... she thought disdainfully, feeling uncharacteristically annoyed at the thought of dressing like a sixteen-year old.  On a whim, she pulled out a red, button- down dress and held it to her chest, eyeing the rest of her clothing critically, and as she did so, a slow, now-familiar feeling of unease fell over her, causing her hair to stiffen at the roots.   
  
Hermione was an orderly person, but she had never been overly neat.  She didn't categorize her clothing according to colour and season, as Lavender did, but it suddenly struck her that the clothes in her wardrobe had a strange fussed-over quality about them, as if the hangers had been lined up with some purpose in mind.   She put the dress back and closed the wardrobe, frowning.  Not sure what was causing her sudden feeling of defense, she approached the large steamer trunk she kept beside her bed in lieu of a night-stand.  Inside, she discovered that her clothes had that same too-tidy appearance.  She pawed through them, noting that her spare parchment, which she always kept on *top* of her extra robes, had now slipped to the back of the trunk.  Wary now, she thrust her head upwards and glanced around the room, her eyes darting to the rafters, to the pleasant fire, and back to her own bed.  Something was not right--because everything seemed *too* right, peaceful in a way that struck her as forced.   
  
"Parvati....Lavender..." Hermione said, her tone careful.  "Did either of you go through my clothes?"  
  
"What?" Lavender looked up from her toenails, clearly put-off at the idea of borrowing Hermione's clothing.  At her desk, Parvati didn't move except to continue on with her writing.  
  
"Parvati?" Hermione prompted, once again neutral.  
  
"Oh, what is it?" Parvati grumbled, smacking her diary shut and turning to look Hermione head-on.  "I only borrowed your suede trousers...you know, the ones from Halloween?  Look, it's not like YOU will ever were them again, is it?"   
  
"I saw you take the trousers, Parvati.  Remember?  You can even keep them, if you like."  
  
Parvati blinked.  "Oh.  Okay."  
  
"Look," Hermione said, addressing both girls. "I just get the sense that someone has been at my belongings. And yes, I'm perfectly aware that neither of you have an interest in my clothing, so I'm just wondering if you two have had any visitors recently."  
  
"Like boys?" Parvati asked, her eyes widening.  
  
"Erm...sure."  
  
"Never," Lavender replied succinctly, rolling her eyes a bit. "It's us who pays visits to the boys...not the other way around."  
  
Hermione sighed. "Alright then," she said, shutting the trunk. She was dying to see if anything in the truck's secret compartment had been touched, but knew she couldn't very well do that with Lavender and Parvati in the room.  
  
As if in response to the situation, Crookshanks flicked his fluffy tail, looking at her through slitted eyes, and she was drawn his spot at the foot of the bed. On her knees so they would be eye-level, Hermione placed her hands on either side of the cat's wide face, stroking his whiskers. "Hello, my handsome boy," she murmured, her voice low. "Did you see anyone looking through my trunk, Crookshanks? Did you?"  
  
Ignoring the -she's finally gone dotty- glances that her two roommates were most likely exchanging, Hermione watched as her cat lazily blinked his eyes shut twice. "No then, is it?" she said, patting his head. Then, struck with an idea, she thrust her hand back into the trunk and pulled out her spare parchment, tearing off a scrap and waving it under Crookshank's pink nose. "Smell anything spotty, boy? Anyone who you wouldn't know or trust?"  
  
Almost mournfully, the cat blinked twice again and gave a half-hearted purr. "There, there...it's not your fault." Hermione crooned, tickling his chin. "You must have been bothering the house-elves when we had our visitor." -But don't you worry, I'll find out who has been checking up on me-… she added silently.  
  
She reckoned that tomorrow she would put her Anaemus readings on hold and start looking into ways in which one could become invisible--without the means of a cloak.  
  
------------------------------------  
  
Readers: Thanks for your patience in waiting for this chapter. I wrote most of it on while on vacation, and now have the entire story outlined (plus some ideas for a potential sequel—which I may write if this story is continually received well).  
  
A few small acknowledgements: The ideas presented in the Anaemus booklet by Galway Redd Dumbledore the Third are (very!) loosely based on linguistic/literary theories by Saussure and Zizek  
  
"Handsome boy" is what I call my own cat, Pogo (who yes, often blinks at me), so it just felt right to give Crookshanks the same nick-name.  
  
Please review =) 


	15. The Summoning

Mine Protector  
Chapter 15: The Summons  
  
Severus was dreaming. After many nights of thin, troubled sleep, he had finally fallen into a limb-numbing slumber. His dreams were not a sleeping-mind's innocent imaginings, however; instead, he dreamed of things that had already happened, the same nightmare montage that visited him daily, even when he was wide-awake.   
  
"I will do whatever you ask of me, my Lord," he whispered, his head bowed to the floor-skimming hem of Voldemort's cloak.   
  
"If you want to live, Severus, you will anticipate and carry out my wishes *before* I even ask them of you," Voldemort said, his voice as potent as a thin curl of wood-smoke. He ran tented fingers over Snape's lowered shoulders, tracing the outline of his arms almost seductively. It was the seduction of a monster: powerful yet repulsive, intelligent yet lacking all human empathy. Snape was torn between kissing the man's gnarled hand, and shuddering away from its touch. Neither action was a good idea.   
  
"Some of your peers say you've forgotten me in my absence, Severus," the monster-man crooned, massaging slow circles along Snape's back. "Others say you've been lying low, like the coward you are. You always were one to run away, weren't you? Such a weakling....I would have done you in when you were young, if it weren't for that very fine mind of yours." Voldemort ran a finger under his chin, tilting his head so that he had no choice but to meet the red eyes that looked down at him, those twin blossoms of fury. In the background, Peter Pettigrew giggled--a slimy sound, it was the giggle of a man who was fevered with excitement. "Not to mention that Albus Dumbledore apparently trusts you--the old fool. Does he really believe that anyone who wears my mark can resist my summons?"  
  
At this, Severus shuddered slightly, gooseflesh prickling along his arms. Noticing this, Voldemort's reptilian face softened, though it was an expression that promised pain, rather than mercy. "Oh yes, my boy...we'll make dear Albus regret the day he took this little stray in, won't we?"  
  
Then came the "Crucio!" And a world of pain with it: his teeth skinned along his lower lip, then finally bit down, tearing into the flesh with a sting that was pleasant compared to the pain in his muscles, which were writhing and contracting as if strung up in a high wind. A touch, metallic in quality, scraped down every one of his bones, knotting around each joint like vise-clamps. His limbs were pulled in four different directions as he was drawn into the air by invisible bonds.   
  
The pain, the memory of it, was fresh even in dreams, and he shook violently beneath his sheets, sweat seeping from his brow.  
  
Then it was gone.   
  
Away from Voldemort now, Severus and Pettigrew entered a small village at nightfall, cloaked in black silk, hoods pulled up to obscure their identities. Pettigrew's silver arm gleamed like a weapon in the moonlight. Enticed, Severus ran a forefinger along the strange musculature of the silver, which was cold enough to inspire thoughts of frostbite.   
  
"My reward," Pettigrew said, his expression one of intoxication, and then shrugged off his robes so Severus could view the entire prosthetic, which attached to Peter's natural arm at the elbow--just where the dark mark had once been.   
  
It's consuming you," Snape said, pointing out the black, bloated veins that emerged from the base of Peter's human elbow. Tentacle-like, they wrapped up to the base of his neck, where they also coiled around and up his skull, as if flirting with strangulation.   
  
"Jealous traitor..." Pettigrew hissed, pulling his robes closed hastily. He walked forward and further into town. They were in a small wizarding village in Northeast Germany--a place which Severus had visited before, many years ago.  
  
Only half of a step behind him, Snape continued to whisper into Peter's ear, his voice cool and deliberate. "A powerful dark object will swallow you whole before letting you wield it with control, Peter. Even you must know that. Look at Lord Voldemort's monstrous body, made twisted and grotesque by darkness--and you have none of the Lord's innate dark powers, Peter. The arm will destroy you."  
  
"Liar," Peter retorted. "The Lord has made me his equal. With the arm I rule beside him." He turned suddenly, the strong fingers of his arm clutching the neck of Snape's robes and tightening like a noose. "Know your place, fallen one," he spat, and followed that with a little giggle. That familiar, sickening sound that made the contents of Snape's stomach roil.  
  
"You will be forced to kill more than you can imagine," Severus said, his voice strained by Peter's grip.   
  
"I killed thirteen people at once....remember Severus?" Peter said, his laugh becoming more twisted. "I am not afraid to kill again."  
  
So it was true. Dumbledore had told him as much, but until now Severus had secretly hoped Sirius was not innocent. He had wanted to go on hating the Animagi--being unable to hate him would complicate his life in a way that went beyond words. Saying nothing, Snape squirmed in Pettigrew's grip, which mercifully loosened in response. "Let's go on now, shall we?" he asked, almost gently, but there was an unspoken threat beneath his words: Don't you dare deny me, Severus Snape. To deny me will be your death.  
  
Silently, they approached a stately home: not a manor, by any means, but the house was roomy and built of fine Tuscan marble. It was the home of Igor Karkaroff, and both Severus and Peter walked past the front gates un-harmed. The dark magic in the silver arm was so complex, so new to this world, that it didn't even set off the wards. At the door Peter raised the iron knocker and rapped three times, the hollow sound ringing throughout every room of the house. Light footsteps approached, and whoever was behind the front door was apparently struggling with its heaviness. -A house elf, I hope...- Severus thought blankly. -Please let there be no one at home other than house elves...-  
  
But it wasn't a house elf. A little girl, age six or so, squinted at the steps where both men stood in half-darkness; blonde plaits were looped behind her ears, and she wore a charming dress of violet organza. "Are you here for supper?" she asked, bringing a buttery roll up to her mouth and nibbling around the words. She had but a slight German accent, indicating she had spent only parts of her childhood in the village.   
  
"Hello darling," Peter said, smiling in a way that seemed almost genuine.   
  
-He might even like children...- Severus thought, taken by surprise. As Wormtail he *had* chosen to hide amongst the Weasley brood for twelve years, after all--a feat which Severus couldn't help but marvel at. To survive the rowdy redheads would certainly take a world of patience that Snape himself did not possess.  
  
"It your Daddy at home?" Peter asked sweetly.   
  
The little girl's eyes widened, and when she shook her head a few crumbs were sent flying. "Mummy says I shouldn't talk to people who ask about Daddy," she said, her little face wrinkling with suspicion.   
  
"But we're friends of your Daddy!" Peter exclaimed, feigning hurt. Severus was silent and stiff behind him, trying to wish himself away from this place.   
  
"Anyway, he's not here," the girl said, shrugging. "He's been gone a while. Not even Mummy knows where."  
  
Peter frowned. "That's unfortunate," he said heavily. "Are you certain, sweet--" and with that, his voice was cut off. He watched, curious, as his silver arm rose, the hand flexing open and shut rhythmically. His lips trembled, and the black veins at his neck seemed to pulse, causing Snape to take a cautious step away from him.  
  
"That looks funny," the girl remarked, brushing off her pinafore.   
  
"It's..." But Peter couldn't continue. His face reddened and he lurched forward suddenly, his hand encircling the girl's slim neck and squeezing. She gasped and struggled, her feet pulled inches off the floor, her eyes rolling upwards.   
  
"What are you doing?!" Snape pulled uselessly at Peter's arm. "Let her go!"  
  
Wordlessly, Peter shrugged Snape away and shook the girl just once, but hard enough to whip her backwards with a force that snapped several bones in her body, from the sound of it. Now she dangled like a ghostly marionette from Peter's hand, her tiny tongue protruding from parted lips, a trickle of blood oozing from her left ear. "AGH!" Peter croaked. He looked as if her were trying to drop her--but was unable to. She remained in his grasp: a lifeless, just-plucked flower, but with hair still vivid as daisies.   
  
Peter's mouth worked; it appeared that his voice had returned. It was hard to say whose screams were worse: Ariel Karkaroff, who appeared at the door only seconds after her daughter was tossed to the cold floor, or Peter himself, who continued to scream even as he thrust out and snapped Ariel's neck in much the same way.  
  
  
---  
  
  
Snape's eyes flung open. He was in his own bed, surrounded in sweaty linens, but he could still see little Anna Karkaroff's strangled face, her eyes pleading with him to let go, let go... Make him let go.   
  
In reality, her eyes had been blue, but his tortured memory always painted them as green. Eyes like Harry's....and like hers. Was this his curse? To always be tormented by those who had green eyes?  
  
No, he decided bitterly. Like any fair-minded person, he allowed himself to be tormented by people of various eye colors, not discriminating between any of them.  
  
//Enjoy your nap, Severus?// a voice asked. Chillingly familiar, it came not from his room, but from the contents of his very head. It was Voldemort, and if he was able to speak to Snape directly, and perhaps influence his dreams, he was then *very* near Hogwarts.  
  
"Leave me be..." Snape whispered, clapping his hands over his ears.   
  
//Now now...that won't do any good,// the voice soothed. //And I'm afraid I can't leave you be, Severus. I'm not done with you yet.//  
  
"I will not willingly serve you," Snape hissed, and felt the dark mark burn in white-hot agony at his rebellion.  
  
//Oh, I know that,// Voldemort chuckled and the noise rang within the very chamber of Snape's skull, an invasion that prompted him to double over, groaning. //You may have gotten that fool Pettigrew to turn himself in, but you won't be able to shield Harry Potter for much longer...nor can you protect his little Mudblood friend.//  
  
Snape jolted as if given an electric shock, and Voldemort laughed again. //No, I've had my eye on that girl for a long time, Severus. Pettigrew told me of her skills...but there's more too it than just that, isn't there? Who is she, Severus? Even if you refuse to tell me, you know I have ways of getting the information that I want....//  
  
Feeling his sanity spool away, Snape shook his head repeatedly, willing the voice to leave him be.  
  
//Have it your way...// the voice said, oddly smug. //I will deal with the Mudblood later...but for now, I want you to bring me something. I cannot come near the castle, as you well know, but I suspect that you are more than willing to provide for me, aren't you Severus?//  
  
"No," Snape said helplessly.  
  
//Quaint effort...// the voice trailed off, and in its wake the silence was overwhelmingly loud.  
  
  
----  
  
  
After several days of research, Hermione had found very little useful information regarding invisibility spells. All the spells described in the restricted section of the library required powerful dark magic--the kind that would have set off the wards surrounding and residing within the castle. The only other way of maintaining invisibility, from what she could tell, was by wearing a cloak, and the intruder she encountered had not worn a cloak; in fact, she was fairly certain he'd been dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and light-weight trousers.   
  
-Almost like *pajamas*...- She chewed the end of her quill thoughtfully, then flipped the book she was reading back to the first chapter. There had been something of interest here....she had dismissed it at first, but now wanted to read it again.   
  
//The camouflage charm is only useful in certain situations, this being because the spell-caster is only rendered invisible to a single person, and only for a short amount of time (one hour, maximum). Since the development of functional (though expensive) invisibility cloaks, the need for the camouflage charm has dwindled over the years, making it a rarely-taught charm amongst school-aged wizards and witches.//  
  
Hermione herself had never heard of the camouflage charm before now, and wondered if it was mild enough to go undetected by Hogwarts' security. Dumbledore certainly could have provided her with an answer, but he was in London on a business errand.   
  
-Perhaps Sirius would know...- she thought mildly. He *was* the Defense instructor, after all.   
  
  
----  
  
  
Hermione didn't ever get a chance to ask Sirius about camouflage charms. She stopped by his office about twenty minutes before potions, but the candle outside his door was burning red, which served as notification that he was busy with another student. She paused by the crimson flame, and thought about knocking on his door anyway--she could always claim that she had an emergency, after all. But before she could do so, the office door was pushed open by someone inside, nearly smacking her dead on the nose. It was Harry.  
  
"Yeah, I'll show it to you tomorrow..." he was saying, looking over his shoulder at Sirius, who was standing by the fireplace. The remainders of a shared meal on the table behind him, Sirius blinked curiously at Hermione's raised first, which she had readied to knock on the door but now slowly lowered back to her side.  
  
"Show him what?" Hermione asked, and Harry's head whipped around at her in surprise.  
  
"The new Wronski Feint he's been practising," Sirius chimed in, an amused smile on his face.  
  
"Oh," Hermione said, somewhat uninterested. Even though she was now a member of the house team, she still had trouble working up enthusiasm for Harry's lunchtime Quidditch forums.   
  
"What are you doing here?" Harry asked her, looking irritated. After discovering that someone had been in her dorm room, she had bowed out of exploding snap the other night; now she suspected that Harry was holding a bit of a grudge against her. He even seemed annoyed with Ron, who had lately become almost as studious as his older brother Percy had been. Rumor had it that Ron had taken a practise-N.E.W.T. exam and hadn't scored well, which would logically account for his recently acquired study habits.   
  
"Oh," she said again, taken off guard. "I just had a question for Sirius about...Animagi," she improvised, her tone casual.   
  
"Sorry Hermione," Sirius said, buttoning up a set of black robes with red trim. "I need to see Hagrid before this afternoons' class. We'll be needing some extra dragons-hide gloves, you see." He smiled apologetically at her and turned down the lights with a flick of his wand. "Be seeing you two after potions, right?" he asked, ushering Harry out of his office.   
  
"Right, Sirius," Harry said, and waved half-heartedly at his godfather's retreating figure. Then he and Hermione walked to the dungeons together, an odd silence creating a definite division between them.   
  
"You're mad at Ron and me, aren't you?" she said finally, keeping up with him.   
  
"No," Harry said through his teeth. "Why should I be mad?"  
  
"Because we're both studying so much....worried about N.E.W.T.s and all," she said quietly. "You could study with us you know." She added this last bit thoughtlessly, forgetting for a moment that her recent 'studies' had little to do with exams.  
  
Harry shook his head somewhat mournfully. "I don't care about the N.E.W.T.s."  
  
"What?...Why?" Hermione was genuinely surprised by his statement. Harry had always been a relatively good student, and until recently had *always* studied more than Ron.  
  
"Really, I don't," he declared hotly. "All I'm expected to do is hang around here and wait for Voldemort to come fetch me for his orgy of death, right?"  
  
"Don't make jokes like that," she insisted, clutching his arm and steering him to a stop.   
  
"I'm serious....If my life is going to be defined by Voldemort's evil plots, then I want to spend the rest of my days having fun. I want to play Quidditch and stuff myself with honeyduke's fudge and laze about playing exploding snap. I want to find a girl who will have sex with me and then dunk my head in Hagrid's whiskey barrel..." he paused, taking in her stunned expression.   
  
"Harry...." she began, her voice wavering with emotion.   
  
"No, stop," he said, putting a finger on the hand she had wrapped about his arm. Sorrow marred his features. "I shouldn't have said that....it's just..."  
  
"Yes?" she prompted.  
  
"Cedric was killed...and then I spent all last year waiting for the other shoe to drop." His eyes met hers, heavy with meaning. And even though she knew what he was referring to, he went on: "I waited and waited for Voldemort to search me out, like he has almost every year, but nothing happened. But that won't happen this year. I'm just not that lucky. He's coming for me soon. I know it."   
  
-I know how you feel...- she wanted to say. But she didn't dare.   
  
"Harry, if you live your life like you're just waiting around for Voldemort to snatch you away from it....then you've already let him beat you. You do know that, don't you?" she asked, wanting to draw him into an embrace, but settled for squeezing his arm slightly.   
  
"That's exactly what Sirius said."  
  
Once she would have been surprised at those words, but this time, she wasn't. "Sirius is right," she insisted. "And you *know* his intentions are good."  
  
"I know," he admitted. He was biting his lip now--it was what he always did before apologizing. "Hermione, I--"  
  
"No need," she said, anticipating his words. He smiled gratefully, and drew her into a half-hug. The stiffness of his body suggested he was still troubled by something, but she let it go, and for the time being accepted his hesitation to completely confide in her. When he was ready, he would come to her and Ron both.  
  
They entered potions together, the silence between them more amiable now, but the classroom was in a complete, chaotic uproar. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were gleefully using their wands to toss Neville's toad back and forth in a game of keep-away, all while Ron and Seamus shouted insults from the other side of the room, not quite daring to use their wands against the three Slytherins. Snape was nowhere to be seen.   
  
Hermione frowned a little, not just disapproving of the childish antics going on in the room, but also feeling a pinprick of concern at the potion master's absence. It was simply unthinkable that Snape would arrive to his own class late, as he himself received far too much pleasure in giving students detention for tardiness. The Hogwarts rule was that students were to wait fifteen minutes for their professors to show up; if the teacher did not show up in that amount of time, the students were free to leave. In Hermione's experience, this had only happened once: last year, when Hagrid had too much to drink at a luncheon held at the Three Broomsticks.   
  
Fifteen minutes passed, and still there was no Snape. Most of the students had ceased their petty arguments and were now exchanging high-fives. "Alllllright! No potions!" Ron exclaimed, clapping Harry on the back. The two boys seemed to make-up entirely over this shared joy, and were soon making plans to visit Hagrid's cabin, hoping they might catch Sirius along the way.   
  
"Want to come along?" Harry asked Hermione, while Ron gathered up his bookbag.  
  
"Ah...someone ought to tell Professor McGonagall that Snape didn't show up, right?" she asked, donning her best Prefect's voice.  
  
"Oh please *don't*, Hermione," Ron pleaded. "If you report it, we'll have to make up potions on a Saturday or something!"  
  
She mulled this over for a moment. "Well, you two go on ahead. I think I'll catch up on some reading before our Defense class," she finally relented, busying herself with a stack of books.   
  
"Suit yourself," Harry said, and the two boys took off, a renewed spring in both of their steps.  
  
Hermione had no intentions of reading, of course. As soon as the other students had cleared the dungeon, she found her way to the corridor, stopping at the wall that was marked with a single torch. "Brandywine," she said, hoping that Severus--wherever he was--would forgive this presumptuous intrusion.   
  
His quarters were dim, the fire not crackling merrily as it usually was. Only a few faint embers glowed on the hearth, suggested that the fire had been untended for some time, and the room was unpleasantly cool and damp, causing her to draw her robes around her body tightly. "Incendio!" She pointed her wand and flames burst to life, lighting all corners of the room in a mellow incandescence. The room was neat as always, but there was no sign of the potions master.   
  
"Hello?" she called, her voice high and childish.   
  
A small sound came from behind the door that she knew must lead to Snape's bedroom; not the dripping noise of the dungeon, but a human noise--a rustle of fabric, or the shuffle of bare feet, perhaps. Gathering her nerve, she twisted the knob back and forth a few times; if he was in there, she wanted him to have plenty of warning before she entered. While she wouldn't have necessarily *minded* if she caught Snape making his way out of the shower, she had a feeling he would curse her clear into next week if such a thing were to happen.  
  
She pulled the door open. Surprisingly, she was nearly blinded with early-afternoon sunlight. Blinking, she glanced upwards and saw that a large sky-light had somehow been cut into the steep, angled ceiling of the room, allowing a slice of November's blue-sky to stare down into the dungeon. The room was minimally decorated: a brass bedstead with untidy Slytherin-green sheets, an antique Turkish rug shot through with pure gold thread. The walls were bare but for a few black and white photographs, from which a few stiff-looking wizards and witches (Snape's ancestors, no doubt) grimaced.  
  
And there was Snape himself, his back turned to her, standing oddly still. His clothes were rumpled as if he had slept in them, and even as she chanted his name, he made no move to suggest that he heard her.  
  
"Snape....Professor Snape?" she repeated, then finally: "Severus?"  
  
He twitched slightly, then pivoted carefully on his heels, moving as if he were petrified. At the sight of his face, she swallowed a rising cry. He looked made of wax, he was so pale, and his eyes were heavily shadowed in ash-gray. He stumbled forward a little, and as he moved she saw a thin line of blood seep from one of his nostrils.  
  
"Severus!" She stepped forth and grasped at his shoulders, struggling to prop him upright. It was like trying to keep a statue on balance.  
  
"Hello, Miss Granger," he said, his voice hollow. She should have been relieved to hear him speak, but his voice came from so far away...it was almost as if his lips hadn't moved.  
  
"What happened to you?" she cried, blotting the stipple of blood from the sensitive hollow just above his top lip. Her touch seemed to rouse him a little; the skin on his neck gained color, though the rest of his face remained dull and wan.   
  
He laughed a bit, his throat gravelly. "Mister Riddle and I shared a visit," he said, looking crazed. And then, even though she was holding on to his shoulders tightly, he slumped from her grasp and collapsed to the floor. Hands still raised to the spot where he had stood, she thought he fainted at first, but then he leaned back on his haunches and drew his arms around her knees, burying his face in her robes with a muted whimper.   
  
Mixed thoughts bolted through her head: this wasn't like him...this was the behavior of a broken man, not the behavior of a proud, arrogant teacher who was known to shrivel a student's confidence with a single glance. Part of her was increasingly frightened at the tightening embrace he had around her legs, but she couldn't stop herself from stroking hair away from his forehead--though she grimaced slightly at its unwashed quality--doing her best to soothe him even though he was shaking hard enough for her to hear it in his ragged breathing.   
  
"What was it...Cruciatus?" she asked, her tone neutral.  
  
He said nothing, but shook his head against her leg.   
  
"Imperius, then?"  
  
He nodded and finally pulled himself up off the floor; after a few attempts he gracelessly situated himself on the end of his bed, clearly trying to collect himself. "I can usually resist it..." he said, his voice reedy. "But he was closer this time...and two, maybe three others were helping him."  
  
"Death-eaters?"  
  
He nodded again and she sat on the bed, making sure that a few inches remained in the space between them. "What did he want?" she asked, not sure she really wanted to know.   
  
"I don't remember." He looked at his knees helplessly, though a dose of the usual causticness was entering his voice. "I remember blacking out in my bed...and when I opened my eyes, I was standing right where you found me. Whatever he had me do, I don't believe I left the school. And the wards are undisturbed."  
  
"Even so, anything he would summon you for is important.... you must try to remember," she insisted, putting a hand to his shoulder.   
  
He pulled away sharply. "Don't you think I know that? I may remember later...but right now there's nothing there, I tell you."  
  
"I believe you," she said.   
  
"Oh, there's a relief," he retorted, and stood up, hand held to his forehead under a wave of dizziness. With much effort, he stalked his way over to the other side of the bed and pulled back the covers. "I need to rest now," he said in a voice that was no longer snappish, but weary, and then he slid between the sheets, fully clothed.   
  
A few moments later she was on the bed as well, above the covers instead of under them, but laying supine at his side and gazing up through the sky-light.   
  
"You can see the stars from bed, can't you?" she asked.  
  
"Why are you still here?" His words came muffled from the blankets.  
  
"I'm not leaving," she said simply.  
  
"Miss Granger..." he droned. "I told you I don't remember anything else. This inquisition has ended."  
  
She sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. For someone who'd just been standing hopelessly before her on the brink of Imperius madness, his insults remained remarkably spunky. "This isn't an inquiry at all, you impossible prat!" she exclaimed, fighting the urge to wallop him with a pillow. "I'm staying with you because I care, okay?"  
  
Bracing herself for a swift shove to the floor, she was surprised when he rolled over and drew her to him, curving into her body as he had when she first entered the room. "Yes..please stay," he murmured, his voice cracking with quiet emotion.   
  
For a long time she held him as she would have held a child, not speaking. His breath indicated he was as awake as she was--but then she would have been surprised if he had been able to fall asleep after what he had endured. Soon, the blue in the window above them deepened, and she realized she had missed her Defense class. It mattered little now.   
  
"Severus?" she ventured, stroking the back of his neck a little.   
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"Why do you hate Harry?" The words were simple; there was no hate in them, no malice. It was just a question.   
  
"I don't hate him...not exactly."  
  
She sighed. "I know....you're supposed to be the bully--keep him in line and all. But...well, he hates *you*, you know. Is that what you wanted?"  
  
He broke away from her embrace, his black eyes unreadable. "Would it have been better to befriend him?" he asked. "Should I have been kind one moment, only to lay down the law the next?"  
  
She shook her head slightly. "But I don't even think you *could* have befriended him....you hate him for other reasons, don't you? Reasons that are connected to his parents...and to Sirius and Remus, too."  
  
He snorted. "The werewolf and the dog, plus everyone's favorite hero, James Potter. James and I used to be friendly with each other, you know..."  
  
"I didn't," she said. It was true--she always assumed that James and Severus had hated one another from day one.   
  
"We weren't best friends, but we got on well enough. The other Slytherins didn't approve, of course, but I was never one to follow the crowd, exactly..."  
  
She waited quietly for him to continue.   
  
"Then there was Lily Evans. She was a wild girl....more like Sirius in that regard. Though gifted, she had no concern for rules and cared little about grades. When she fell behind in potions, I was assigned to be her tutor. During our sessions I took great pleasure in demeaning her intellect, her house Quidditch team, her taste in friends--anything that came to mind. Even then I wasn't what you would call an 'empathic' mentor. She loathed my superiour attitude, and wasn't afraid to say so. Out meetings often ended in shouting matches--or with her shouting at me, anyway. After a while, though, things changed..."  
  
"You fell in love with her?" she asked, hazarding a guess.   
  
"No! Why does everyone think that?" he complained, and she wondered briefly who the 'everyone' was that he referred to. "I, like every other self-respecting Slytherin, was in love with Narcissa, Lucius Malfoy's girlfriend. Lily was dating James by this time, but it soon became clear that she had certain feelings for me. She starting showing up to our laboratory study dates wearing her best clothes, and her part in our frequent arguments took on a playful, flirtatious tone."  
  
Hermione widened her eyes. "Why do you think she fancied you?  
  
He flashed her a look of disgust in response. "I know...bloody hard to imagine anyone fancying old sharp-faced Snape, right?"  
  
"I--"  
  
"Nevermind." He waved at her dismissively, and continued on with his story: "I told myself that I was imagining the flirtation. She was pretty, and there was something very unencumbered about her personality that I was attracted to, but I always played by the rules, you see.... I would have never made a move on a girl that was already spoken for. I tried avoiding her, but she finally cornered me in the library and confessed her feelings for me. It was quite funny, actually...she told me that she thought I was thoroughly unattractive and unpleasant, but that she had been unable to rid me from her mind."  
  
Hermione smiled a little. She could relate to the girl's sentiment.   
  
"She asked me if she could kiss me, just once. She wanted to know if what she was feeling was real, you see....I think she was convinced it was just a strange phase, like a virus one might contract in close quarters. James was always so even...so predictable. She must have found my arrogance refreshing, unbelievable as it might sound." He paused and ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up wildly.   
  
"So did you kiss her?" she asked, poking at his shoulder anxiously.  
  
"I did. And Sirius and James saw."  
  
"Oh, Gods...."  
  
Before continuing, he quickly summoned a glass of water from the bathroom, taking a long drink. "James merely looked hurt, but Sirius was livid. Thought I had been molesting her all along, apparently. I stood by as both boys lashed me with insults, waiting for Lily to come to my defense, but she didn't. She slunk behind a bookcase and said nothing, unable to meet my eyes...or James'. I found myself wondering what was worse...if James and Sirius went on hating me, who, as a Slytherin, was their natural enemy...or would it be worse if they came to hate Lily, whom they loved and trusted? I decided to let the natural order stand. I denied nothing."   
  
"And that's how the Marauders came to hate Severus Snape," Hermione said, and from her mouth it sounded like the moral of some obscure fairy-book.   
  
He smiled wryly in response. "More or less. So you see...hating Harry is easy. It's what comes natural to someone like me. It's expected...and is for the boy's own good, in a way. Hating me makes it easier for him to see the good and bad in others, in the long run."   
  
"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself," she said, propping herself up on one elbow.   
  
"I'm not." He shook his head, laying back on the pillow.   
  
"Do you still wonder what Lily saw in you?"  
  
He studied her a moment before answering. "I used to wonder. There was such a strange look in James' eye that day...I think he might have suspected the truth, just for a moment. But neither of us could comprehend why she would find herself attracted to me, and even now, I have no idea..."  
  
"I have one..." she said faintly, and longing filled her body without explanation, causing a flush to fan out over her face in visible crimson.   
  
But nothing about him indicated that he saw her expression of affection. For the first time since she had lay down next to him, he dropped his eyes shut in sheer exhaustion, pulling the blankets up to his chin.   
  
"I think I can sleep now," he mumbled, his voice already heavy and disconnected.   
  
"Okay."   
  
She waited for his breathing to grow deep and regular. Waited until long after the sun had gone down, until after the stars appeared in the sky-light and nighttime clouds floated by like bright creatures behind a glass display case, silent and untouchable.   
  
"Goodnight," she finally said, then left his quarters quietly.   
  
----  
  
The long corridor through the dungeons was silent, as always. While making her way through it, Hermione realized that it was long past dinner--nearly bedtime, even--and that Harry and Ron had probably begun to wonder where she had gotten off to. Not worried, she was prepared to give them her usual excuse: that she had fallen asleep in the restricted section of the library.   
  
She mussed her hair a little to give herself a 'I've been studying so hard I'm about to lose it' look, before realizing that being in Snape's bed had probably taken care of the job for her.   
  
"Hey, Granger," an unmistakable drawl came from behind her, and she turned to see Draco Malfoy leaning against a dimly-lit pillar that presumably pointed the way to the Slytherin common room. He was fully dressed in winter robes, a green and silver scarf wrapped about his neck as if he had been outside recently. "What are you doing down here amongst the real wizards? Tired of your idiot friends yet?"  
  
"Charming, Malfoy," she said, straightening her robes calmly. "I got lost looking for the kitchen, if you must know. Now get along, won't you...." she made an impatient shooing motion with her hand.   
  
"You're telling me to get along?" His gray eyes widened in delight. "You're not even supposed to be down here, Mudblood."  
  
"I'm a prefect, Malfoy...just like you. So quit with the hot air already." Haughtily, she turned on her heels and started to walk away from him, but before she could get very far he reached out and yanked her back by the wrist. Roughly, he pushed her against a wall so that her caught wrist was pinned to the cold stone-work. He was several inches taller than her, and quite strong, too--the grip on her arm was close to being painful, a fact that almost made her sorry she would soon be bursting his evil bubble by thoroughly kicking every square inch of his ass.   
  
"Come now, Draco," she teased. "I understand how you feel...but money and great hair products won't work on me like they do on Pansy."  
  
"Shut up!" he hissed, clamp her mouth shut with his other hand. "Listen good, rotten Mudblood....the others are on their way." And at her look of surprise, he smiled deviously.   
  
"Yes...you heard me right. We've been waiting for you."   
  
****************************  
  
Teensy acknowledgment: Hermione's thoughts on kicking every square inch of Draco's ass are clearly an homage to the Buffy season 6 finale. ;)  
  
My chapters are getting longer...I hope that's acceptable. 


	16. Caught

Mine Protector  
Chapter 16: Caught  
  
"Yes...you heard me right. We've been waiting for you."  
  
It was a pity that Malfoy hadn't bothered to secure her other arm against the wall, otherwise she might not have been free to yank his grubby hand off her mouth and make him slap his own pretty face with it.   
  
-There's really no better reply than an angry *thwap*...- Hermione thought contentedly, remembering that lovable smack she had bequeathed to him a few years ago.  
  
"Wha...?" Draco flung his head back and backed away from her, eyes watering with humiliation.   
  
"Sorry about that...you were wrenching my wrist, you see," she said smoothly, composing herself. "And ugh...your hands smell like damp dog, by the way."  
  
In reply, two more Slytherins appeared from the dark, their faces practically enameled in impassiveness. It was Roland Nott and Malcolm Baddock. Hermione had to give Draco credit for originality; since when did he go anywhere without the ubiquitous Crabbe and Goyle?   
  
Nott and Baddock flanked Draco protectively, and she saw that, like Draco, they were also outfitted in winter robes and scarves. "What have you boys been planning...midnight sledding?" she asked, and as she did so, made a gesture that was peculiar even to her. She silently raised a finger and invisibly drew a thin, horizontal line in the air, directly in front of the three Slytherins. They seemed not to notice.  
  
"Someone please take that bitch out," Draco complained, rubbing at his cheek.   
  
"Gladly..." Nott said, a crooked smile dividing his features. "Stupefy!" he cried, and a curse exploded from the end of his wand, zig-zagging until it hit the dead-center of her chest.  
  
-----  
  
  
Weirdly, Hermione felt nothing. The light crackled a few inches in front of her, rather than actually making contact. In that split-second she saw Nott's single brow arch in confusion. One more split-second and she forced herself to fall to the ground, landing like a rag-doll with her arms and legs akimbo.  
  
-Ouch...this had better be worth it...-  
  
"Are you sure that was strong enough?" Draco asked, apparently unconvinced. "She didn't fly backwards like Weasley did."  
  
"Of course it was," Malcolm insisted. "Nott is better with a wand than the two of us put together."  
  
"That's right," Nott said assuredly. "She didn't fly back because she's got more powerful magic than Weasley, obviously. Everyone knows that she's top of her class."  
  
-Interesting...- Hermione thought through her feigned unconsciousness. Nott had always been a particularly quiet, innocuous Slytherin. She didn't even realize that he knew a single thing about her, aside from the fact that she was Harry Potter's friend.  
  
"Who's carrying her?" This time, she couldn't tell if the words came from Nott or Baddock.  
  
"*I* am the strongest," a self-important voice claimed. Draco, no doubt. And without waiting for the others' approval, she felt his hands tug at her underarms; easily, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, where her head dangled towards the ground uncomfortably. She slitted her eyes open and saw the dungeon floor, plus a generous portion of Draco's Quidditch-conditioned ass. The one she was supposed to be kicking right at this very moment.   
  
-This had *really* better be worth it...- she thought emphatically, shutting her eyes again. Draco marched up the hallway and her head thumped painfully against his back Feeling his hand curl into her robe and around the back of her thigh, Hermione imagined he was enjoying this--it was just like the cartoons where a caveman clubbed a woman on the head and carried her back to his filthy bachelor pad. The fact that Draco grew up in a pureblood household and had probably never seen a cartoon in his life didn't change the fact that he was definitely relishing this brutish role.   
  
As the trio continued to walk, Hermione realised she had no clue where she was being taken. Not back to the Slytherin common-cave, that was for sure. She presumed they were taking her out of the school, possibly right into the hands of some death-eaters.  
  
-You have really gone off the deep end this time, girl....you're just going to let them HAND you over to death-eaters after what happened to Severus?-  
  
She considered delivering a swift kick to the front of Draco's head and making a run for it, but curiosity was already sinking its talons into her. It seemed that Ron had come out of a similar situation in one piece, and she had to maintain confidence that she would also be fine. Weighing her options mentally, she decided it was more important to discover exactly what was going on outside Hogwarts. And if she found herself in mortal danger...well, it wouldn't be the first time, would it?  
  
"Stop," Nott commanded, and Draco pulled to a halt. "Stay here until I give the word." Peeking again, Hermione saw that there was a little more light in this area, which she imagined might be the archway that led to the great hall. Nott was gone a few minutes, and when he returned declared that the coast was clear. Soon they were outside--though Hermione noted that they had not exited via means of the front or side entrances, which could only mean that there was a secret entrance located on the ground floor somewhere. Not surprising, as the castle was full of secrets.  
  
"Directly into the Forbidden Forest, just like last time," Nott said. "And remember...no magic until we're well away from the castle!" At this, Hermione wondered how the three Slytherins had managed to cast a spell in the school corridors without setting off wards. They must have de-activated the ones in the dungeon, somehow.   
  
"Hurry it up," Nott hissed, causing her to question just how long Draco had been taking orders from the small, unassuming boy. Even so, he didn't seem to like obeying Nott much; every time the other Slytherin opened his mouth, she felt Draco's body tense up.   
  
Soon, the smell of damp, moldering leaves indicated they had entered the forest, and what she could see of the ground was partly obscured by tendrils of fog, moving underfoot with a life of their own. Cold seeped into her pores like a thick narcotic, and she found herself wishing her robes were heavier, or that her socks were darned from wool instead of cotton--any little comfort, at this point, would be nice. As they moved over rougher ground, her escort re-adjusted his grip on her, lifting her head up slightly so it didn't bang against him quite so much. If he hadn't been Draco Malfoy, she might have been grateful for such a gesture.   
  
The Slytherins trundled to a stop and stood quietly, apparently listening for something.   
  
"We should keep going," Draco spoke up suddenly. "There are things in this forest that I don't want to run into."  
  
"What, like the ruddy star-gazing centaurs?" Nott asked, his tone harsh.   
  
Draco had no reply, but Hermione imagined the glare on his face must be one of mammoth proportions.   
  
"The clearing is straight ahead," Nott continued. "No turning back now."  
  
More walking. The blood that had pooled Hermione's head was making her dizzy, and the contents of her stomach were threatening to make an encore appearance. When Draco finally pulled her from his shoulder and onto a patch of grassy ground, she was flooded with silent relief.  
  
"Here they come." From Baddock, this time.   
  
-Here *who* comes? Oh god Oh god Oh....- The instinct to flee washed over her in a smothering tide, and she fought to quell it down. The best thing to do was to allow herself a small look...just a peek. She had to know just how many others were approaching. Squeezing open her eyes, she saw that she was laying in a small, overgrown pasture; a dilapidated shed on one end suggested that the area had once been used for farming. Malfoy, Nott, and Baddock were standing with their backs to her, watching silently as two more men approached from the other side of the forest, hoods pulled up to obscure their faces. As they came closer, however, they pulled the rich fabric of their robes back slightly, allowing Hermione to pinpoint one of the men at once: it was Lucius Malfoy.   
  
"Who stunned her?" He asked immediately.   
  
"It was me," Nott said, his voice swelling with self-importance.  
  
Lucius cast a murderous look in his son's direction. "Still unwilling to take the upper hand, Draco." Not a question; an accusation.  
  
Draco himself shrugged, as if thoroughly bored. "I did what you asked of me, didn't I?" he drawled, using the same veiled sarcasm that he reserved for most of the Hogwarts' teaching staff.  
  
Lucius ignored him, and instead focused back on Nott. "Roland, your father is standing watch at the other end of the forest. I will tell him of you achievement...." He toed Hermione's arm as if she were a dead animal. "The mudblood is supposed to be quite powerful....it must have been a strong curse. Well done."  
  
The man flanking Lucius, who might have been Baddocks' father, nodded in silent agreement.   
  
"Now go. We'll be taking the girl from here." Lucius snapped his fingers as if dismissing a troop of house-elves.  
  
Baddock and Nott turned on their heels in instant obedience, but Draco hung behind. "What is it?" Lucius spat at his son, impatient.   
  
"Where are you taking her?" he asked. Hermione had the impression that he was keeping his tone carefully benign, but his stiff posture suggested nervousness.   
  
-Is he actually worried about me?- she wondered, wishing she was in a better position to read his expression.   
  
"Why so concerned?" Lucius asked, the man by his side still silent.   
  
Draco cocked his head in a way that might have been defiant. "Because I still have to go to school with her....if anything should happen, I'm sure to be the first suspect."  
  
Lucius smiled unpleasantly. "Though I admire how you look out for number one, son, I must insist that you leave... NOW. As planned, we will questioned the mudblood girl, then we will obliviate her memory. When she wakes up, she will find herself in Hogsmeade, surrounded by empty bottles of butterbeer. Just like the red-headed Weasley did."  
  
"That plan seems pretty third-rate," Draco said, curiously smug. "No one will believe that Granger crept into the village and got pissed. She's too bloody up-tight for that..."  
  
"You question the plan because it is simple," the other man said suddenly. "Which is precisely why the plan works." The finality of his tone suggested that the subject was no longer up for debate. Sulkily, Draco left the clearing. Hermione was almost sorry to hear him go.  
  
Now she was alone with the two death-eaters, and there was at least one more nearby.  
  
Lucius' cohort kneeled on the grass next to her prone form. "Nothing sweeter than an unconscious school girl," he crooned, running a bare fingertip along her exposed calf.   
  
"There's no time for that, Macnair," Lucius said, annoyed. Hermione vaguely remembered that Macnair executed magical creatures for the Ministry; of course, it only made sense that he would be some kind of sadist, then. Despite Lucius' warning, he continued to touch her, daring to reach up and stroke her kneecap; it felt as if his icy fingers were leaving patches of frost in the path that he made. She squirmed internally. -Just how long will I have to take this?...-  
  
She opened her eyes with purpose. -Not long, apparently...-   
  
Being greeted with Macnair's face almost made her wish she hadn't acted so hastily: a burly man, he was looking her over with a feral, hungry gaze. His skin was ashen and pock-marked, his brow rather hulkish--but his ugliness didn't turn her stomach nearly as much as his ravenous expression did. When he saw that she was awake, he didn't startle or hesitate, he only smiled further--a frighteningly genuine smile that hinted at unspeakable appetites.   
  
"There now, Miss Granger...so nice of you to join us," Lucius said maliciously, still standing. Of course, she didn't really expect someone like *him* to lower himself down to her side.  
  
She didn't bother acting fuzzy-headed in the manner of one who had just been stunned. Instead, she got right to the point. "What do you want with me, Mister Malfoy?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.   
  
His eyes widened appreciatively. "You have a fast recovery time, I see," he remarked. "No wonder you get higher marks than Draco....though how a plodding mudblood like you does it is a mystery to me."  
  
"Enough with the flattery." She propped up on her elbows, patting the pockets of her robe casually.  
  
"Looking for this?" Macnair asked, displaying her wand and teasing it back and forth like a pendulum. Uh-oh...he was good. She'd been so tweeked by his roaming hands that she hadn't noticed when he'd nicked her wand. At her surprised expression, Macnair released a trollish chuckle.  
  
Looking as if he found Macnair's antics gauche, Lucius finally kneeled on the grass beside her, spreading his cloak out fussily. "Never fear, my girl...you won't remember any of this, unfortunately," he said, pulling a vial of clear liquid from his robes. From the way it sloshed about, Hermione gauged its consistency to be thinner than water. Veritaserum, she was certain.  
  
Whatever happened, she could *not* swallow a single drop of it.   
  
Macnair cupped her chin, squeezing lightly until she opened her mouth passively. "There's a good girl," he cooed obscenely, and Lucius unstopped the vial, leaning forward to spill the contents onto her tongue.....  
  
As his hand journeyed towards her, she saw that he was precariously balanced on the heels of his expensive Italian shoes, his knees spread apart for support. Taking advantage of his vulnerable position, she shot out with her right foot and whomped him squarely in the balls.  
  
"YUG!" Lucius croaked, and the truth serum dribbled down the front of her robes, missing her mouth by just a few centimetres. His face, which typically resembled a mask of exquisitely carved ivory, went red and twisted as he rocked sideways and curled into a fetal position, whimpering.  
  
-Too close...- she thought distractedly, watching him gasp for breath.   
  
Then cold steel touched the edge of her throat. It was Macnair, holding a knife to her neck.   
  
"Nice move," he whispered into her ear moistly, his chin settling into the groove of her shoulder. "Lucius likes to get answers using the old hocus-pocus, but I find that Sweet Lou here is far more convincing." He caressed the flat of the blade just beneath her chin, wrapping his free arm around her ribcage as he spoke. Beside them, Lucius continued to roll on the ground in silent agony.  
  
She swallowed. "Only lunatics name their knives, you know."  
  
He gave her a painful squeeze that forced breath out of her lungs. "Think you're smart, don't you," he hissed, the pretense of seduction dropping out of his tone.   
  
In response, she butted her head back with all her strength, cracking her skull into Macnair's already misshapen nose. He grunted in surprise and loosened his hold on her, enough so that she elbowed her way free and was up on her feet, running.   
  
-Oh god oh fuck...he's behind me...right behind me!- She could practically feel his hot, animal breath at her back, faster than terror. She was speedy herself, but for such a large man he moved in a remarkably nimble manner, galloping at a high pace, his arms windmilling out as if to help propel himself along. She was pulling ahead, though; grass whipped at her ankles and the forbidden forest rose before her, promising either sanctuary or certain death--though she didn't know which would find her first. Here the ground was just a tiny bit uneven. She stumbled on the incline, almost losing her footing, and felt her precious lead on him drain away.   
  
"Got you!" he cried, flinging his arms around her as if they were engaged in a merry game of tag. She struggled to break free, but he was the one holding the knife. Casually, as if skinning a rodent, he sliced several deep gashes across the surface of her robes, destroying the material. Then he made another pass and the blade carved directly into her flesh, a long line of agony drawn just above her navel. She yelped and yanked the wrist that was cutting her in a sharp, upwards motion, turning the knife back towards him, hearing delicate bones grind together. He bellowed and she felt dim satisfaction, even as warm blood was seeping into the waistband of her skirt. Using all her weight, she shoved backwards and they both fell to the ground with a mighty thud; she was sprawled across his heaving chest and rolled off him, staggering back to her feet.   
  
She had half-expected Macnair to leap up and resume the pursuit, but he was moaning wordlessly, his hands working inside the tattered front of his robe, eyes glazed with agony.   
  
"Oh shit," she murmured, pulling aside the fabric with tented fingers. His own knife was burrowed into his gut, clear to the hilt. No blood seeped from the wound, but it was beginning to burble from his mouth, looking black as mud in dim moonlight. Had he stabbed himself when they fell together? It certainly looked that way, though Hermione thought she would have felt the butt-end of the knife dig into her back if that were the case.   
  
Fishing her wand from the ruins of Macnair's clothing, she cast a spell on both of them to subside bleeding and speed up the healing process. She could only hope that it worked on internal injuries, as well. Then, all delicacy aside, she wretched the knife loose from Macnair's belly and, after a few minutes of thought, pocketed it. She typically admired knives, and would keep this one as a souvenir--it had been the very first to scar her body, after all.  
  
"What have you done?!" She didn't even notice that Lucius had pulled up to her side, limping slightly.  
  
"He'll recover," she said grimly, then turned on Lucius, her wand out-stretched.   
  
Even under the night sky, she saw his already-wan complexion pale. He was at least a tiny bit nervous--no wonder, considering that his sidekick was nearly unconscious from blood-loss.   
  
Working on a hunch, Hermione smiled cunningly. "Accio Veritaserum!" she said, and a second vial flew from his pocket and into her upheld palm. She closed her fist around it and breathed a sigh of contentment.   
  
"I had a feeling that the death-eaters motto was 'be prepared'....looks like I was right," she said, unstopping the vial and giving it a cautious sniff. Oh yes...this was the real thing. Ministry-grade, too, from what she could discern.   
  
"Let's see...I could just dump this on the ground now, couldn't I?" she mused, enjoying his panicked expression. "But I have a better idea...." She moved forward and he opened his mouth obediently, though his eyes betrayed his horror at what was happening. "Thank you...you're being very agreeable," she said, tipping the serum onto his tongue. He swallowed without being asked to do so.  
  
She stepped back to observe him. His body appeared to relax dramatically, a calm drunkenness overtaking his features and softening them out until his face almost seemed likable. He lowered himself into the grass and sat back casually, as if he were merely attending a picnic.   
  
Hermione sat down beside him. "Lucius?" she asked, curious.   
  
"Hmm...yes?" he replied, his voice disconnected.   
  
"Do you know who I am?"  
  
"Yes, you're Hermione Granger. Muggle-born, sixth year at Hogwarts, prefect, top of your class....you're one of Harry Potter's friends, and my son hates you." He smiled placidly, fanning his fingers against his out-stretched legs.   
  
"Why did you want to use the truth serum on me, Lucius?" she asked, a bit disturbed by just how well the veritaserum worked. -If I had swallowed any...Oh Gods....- she shuddered at the notion.  
  
"The Dark Lord asked me to," he replied, his face expressionless. "I was supposed to ask you about your name, where you come from, what you do at Hogwarts, how much magic you know, what you and Dumbledore talk about, what you and Harry do together--"  
  
"But why?" she asked, growing impatient.  
  
"The Dark Lord believes that there is more to you than meets the eye. He senses that Potter has allied himself with one who has recently developed powerful, ancient magic. He wants to know more about your purpose."  
  
"I see," she said, and Lucius remained quiet, waiting for her next question. She studied his handsome, clueless face for a few moments before raising her wand. "Obliviate," she murmured.   
  
Light blinked back into Lucius' eyes. "Where am I?" he asked, rubbing his forehead dazedly.   
  
"Stay here," she commanded, and rose to her feet.   
  
Macnair was where she had left him, still stretched out in pain. The bleeding from his mouth had stopped, though, and his eyes narrowed dangerously at her approach. "You--" he began, trying to sit up.   
  
"Obliviate." He fell back, lapsing into unconsciousness.   
  
"Repairo," she said, and his damaged robes magically mended themselves. When he woke up, he would wonder at the fresh wound in his belly, and would probably miss his knife, 'Sweet Lou'....but he wouldn't remember what had happened.   
  
She should have been happy to escape with her life, but she found herself tired and deflated, instead. Voldemort would know that his death-eaters' memories had been altered...there was no avoiding it. And of course, he would link this incident back to her. She could only hope that he would perceive the scenario as one in which Harry Potter and his incorrigible band of friends had once again gotten the better of him, as they so often did.  
  
Looking down at herself, though, she almost laughed at the state she was in. Blood was spattered clear down to her ankles, and her robes were shredded to the point where she doubted a repair spell would fix them. Her belly ached desperately, stinging with every step that she took; mud and guck was ground into every pore of her body, her lower ribs felt cracked, and three of her fingernails were ripped down to the quick. She certainly couldn't go to back to her dormitory looking like this--nor could she risk checking in with Madame Pomfrey.   
  
She came to a decision quickly. She would return to Severus' quarters.  
  
-----  
  
After six hours of deadened, dreamless sleep, Severus woke and reached across the bed, his arms curling around the now-cold spot where she had been. His eyes fluttered open. A single slice of moonlight illuminated the bedding, revealing her absence.   
  
-You can't have expected her to stay with you, fool....- he thought bitterly. No, he hadn't expected. Merely hoped.   
  
He massaged his brow; the pain in his head had subsided, but there was an odd vacuum that remained in the depths of his skull, as if a rotten tooth had been pulled loose and extracted.  
  
After a quick shower, he settled himself before the fire, a glass of brandy in hand. It was nearly three in the morning, and he reminded himself to take a sleeping draught before bed the next night--he needed to get back on a sane sleeping schedule, once and for all. As he sipped thoughtfully, a familiar shuffling noise came from behind him: the bricks that made up the doorway to his office were cascading away. She had returned to him.   
  
The brightness he felt in his heart went cold and caliginous when she crossed the threshold, clutching the scraps of her robe close to her body. She smiled at him faintly, but trembling shoulders betrayed her. Wet and filthy, her hair had a few stray leaves caught in it, and a flecks of dried blood stood out against her pale neck.   
  
Fury blazed through every one of his nerve endings--the torment of Imperius shrinking from his memory at once. "Who did this?" he demanded, swooping towards her.  
  
"Malfoy and Macnair..." she wheezed, doubling over slightly. Amazingly, a light bit of laughter came from her lips. "Looks like Voldemort picked the same day to put us through the mill....didn't he?"  
  
"What did they do to you?" he growled. "Was it Cruciatus?"  
  
She grimaced. "Afraid not....just old-fashioned physical violence. You should see the other guy..." she quipped lamely, her voice weak.  
  
"Tell me what they did!" He moved forth, straightening her up at the shoulders. She gasped in pain and the ruined robes fell away; beneath them, her blouse was equally ravaged, open from neck to waist, revealing the length of her bloodied torso. Bruises the size of small hams were forming on either side of her ribcage.   
  
"Oh Gods..." she pitched forward, putting her hands on his chest for support. Her eyes were glassy with anguish that bordered on madness. "Severus...oh...it hurts," she said. And the quality of normalcy in her voice frightened him: she sounded perfectly lucid--neither stammering, nor whimpering. *It hurts*.....the words were delivered like a statement of fact and rationality.  
  
-Its not that she just accepts the pain--she *expects* it....-   
  
Silently, he cursed Voldemort for the remainder of his monstrous days. Let the viper burn.  
  
"Please...let me see," he said, and, calm despite his rage, pulled her hands away from the wounds she was shielding. A long, deep gouge ran across the width of her stomach, still oozing blood--not a mortal wound, though if she hadn't magically slowed the bleeding, she could have very well bled to death, in time. Gently, he pressed his fingers into the side of her ribs; she drew in a sharp breath, but didn't cry out. "Broken," he murmured, feeling the bones shift. "I can do something for the pain, and speed up the healing. But I can't mend these things all at once. You'd need a medi-witch for that."  
  
She nodded vaguely, looking in need of sleep more than anything.   
  
"We need to clean you first," he said, holding her up carefully. "I have some insta-cleanse powder in my classroom--"  
  
"No," she interrupted. "I need a real bath. I need...to feel clean again." Her voice was husky, finally cracking with signs of emotion.   
  
"But you can scarcely move."  
  
She looked up at him purposefully. "Then you'll have to help me," she said simply, and he nodded his head, not daring to deny her anything.   
  
In the bathroom, she sat stiffly on the toilet while he busied himself by fetching clean towels and a bathrobe. The deep, iron-banded tub, like the sink in his classroom, was fed water through the mouth of a stone gargoyle. Usually he liked the effect, but this time it struck him as inappropriate and ominous--not something a girl should have to look up at as she washed away the memory of her attackers.   
  
As she struggled to remove her own clothing, he watched hesitantly from the corner, unsure of himself. There were several handy spells that could whisk clothing off a body instantly, but he doubted that she needed the mental jolt of such an experience. After this pause, he quietly assisted in pulling off the remainders of her bloody blouse--parts of it had dried to her skin grotesquely, particularly around her wound, and she winced when he picked the stiff fabric away. Her brassiere looked as if it had once been shell-pink; unhooking its clasp, his stomach dropped. He couldn't deny that he had wanted to undress her....but never like this. Soon she was entirely naked, and he gathered her old clothes into a pile. Later, he would burn them.   
  
He scooped her up and lowered her into the warm water, supporting her back even as she was submerged. He sponged her shoulders down with soothing amaryllis oil, and though pain was still swimming in her eyes, she seemed to relax under his touch.   
  
"Stop looking at me like that," she said lightly. "None of this was your fault."  
  
He shook his head. "Both of us attacked on the same day...it can't be coincidence. He was in my mind, and he saw...."  
  
"He saw nothing," she said evenly. "Lucius was ready to use veritaserum on me, but I forced it down him, instead. He implied that Voldemort was curious about me, but said absolutely nothing that led me to believe he had knowledge of my true identity."  
  
He dunked the sponge into the tub and wrung it out, frustrated. "But why did he go after you now, after--"  
  
"Think, Severus," she interrupted, stilling him with a move of her hand. "Dumbledore is away for two days. He's meeting with Fudge and the Ministry--it's all over the papers."  
  
Snape said nothing, realizing that she had a valid point. He had long suspected a form of mental and spiritual connection between the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore; Voldemort would not have dared to violate the school--or those within in it--if the headmaster had been nearby.  
  
"I still don't understand....Lucius shouldn't even be able to touch you within this school. Even with Dumbledore away."  
  
"Some of the Slytherins...." she said, then trailed off, her features a struggle of conflicting emotions. "It was Draco Malfoy, Marcus Baddock, and Roland Nott. They stunned me...delivered me."  
  
He closed his eyes, holding in a breath. So...some of the older Slytherins were finally following in his own generation's footsteps, born and suckled on the words of their twisted parents. "They stunned you?" he asked archly. "What you describe is more or less kidnapping....and delivering you into the hands of the death-eaters counts as intent to harm. I promise you that they will be expelled for this."  
  
"No," she said softly, shaking her damp head. "It won't work, Severus....I could have stopped them at any moment. Their stun couldn't even touch me."  
  
"What exactly do you mean?" he asked after a long pause, his voice dropping a few degrees.   
  
She sighed and leaned back into the tub, and the exhaustion on her face reminded him of how she had looked seven years ago, when her *true* age had been sixteen. "It's a long story. Tell me--what do you know of Anaemus?"  
  
"Anaemus?" He frowned. From what he knew, the Anaemus was nothing more than a myth, one more version of the wizarding-worlds' favorite bedtime story, detailing a supremely powerful magic that needed no wand or incantation to be performed. "I've heard very little about it that I would trust," he finally admitted.   
  
"I've been learning a little bit about it from Albus. Now, I don't really know much more than you do, but a week or so ago I somehow stopped Albus from cursing me during one of our practice sessions, and I wasn't even holding my wand at the time. And then tonight, just before Nott stunned me, I drew a line in the air, like this..." she held out a finger and pantomimed the motion.  
  
"With your wand?" he asked, not catching on to her meaning.   
  
"No....that's what I'm trying to tell you. I just drew a line--not even knowing *why*--and it made a barrier appear. Nott's curse was absorbed before it could hit me." She looked at him desperately, sensing his disbelief.   
  
"Are you telling me you only pretended to be stunned?" he asked, his tone stoney.   
  
"Yes," she said in a small voice.   
  
Now incredulity rattled him to the core. She had seen him in a state of complete shame and vulnerability less than twelve hours ago, knowing he had suffered in the hands of Voldemort and his death-eaters, and yet courted similar disaster with the thoughtlessness of....of a reckless, teenaged Gryffindor!  
  
"Do you realize what could have happened to you?" he seethed, and he might have well shaken her if she wasn't already injured. "How could you behave so foolishly?!"  
  
She began shake with silent sobs, and bent over to clutch her knees into her chest; whether it was to hide her nudity or her shame, he did not know, but with broken ribs, it was a position that was sure to hurt. Saying nothing, he uncoiled her from the hunched pose as carefully as possible, then shook his hands dry.   
  
By the time she was warming by the fire, wrapped in a bathrobe, he had mixed up a healing potion. He didn't speak until the potion was in her hands, saying only: "Drink all of it, straight away." She did as he told, even though it was clearly difficult to swallow the foul stuff down. The mixture came with its own pain-reliever, and she was soon testing the strength of her limbs by standing up and stretching, her movements still slow and careful.   
  
"Here," he said brusquely, handing her a set of his school robes--magically altered, of course, so they would fit her. He turned his back as she dressed, ignoring the fact that he had just spent nearly an hour washing her nude body, using a tenderness that he had never before privileged to anyone else.   
  
"I know you're angry..." she said, her voice hitching. "But please, look at me?"  
  
He faced her, his expression unchanged. Dressed now, nothing but her face and hands showed--and that skin was white and scrubbed, two rosy spots burning on the flesh just below her eyes. She looked so young...why did she have to look so young? A muscle in his chest spasmed, wanting to reach out to her, tell her it was okay..that he forgave her.  
  
-Traitor...- he thought bitterly. -It's not *her* that needs forgiveness, is it?-  
  
"It's nearly morning. Your friends will be missing you," he said, unable to express any more than that.   
  
She didn't beg him. Didn't even look back as she slipped out the door.  
  
----  
  
Hermione expected that tonight was right up there with the worst moments of her life--second only to the night that her family had been killed.  
  
Unfortunately, downhill events tend to keep heading in the same direction once they've gained some momentum.  
  
After she droned a password, the fat lady opened the portrait hole, glaring at her for coming at just past four in the morning; only the fact that she was a prefect saved her from a long-winded chewing out. At this hour, the Gryffindor common-room should have been empty. There would be evidence of students, of course--sweaters draped over tables, chocolate frog wrappings left about, Neville's homework sticking out from under a chair--but all the students should have been asleep.   
  
Someone was awake, though. He stood facing the fire, and the flames created a faint nimbus around his entire body, blurring his features so that they were unrecognizable. Then the portrait hole clicked shut behind her, and he whipped around to face her.   
  
"Harry..." she said dully. "Still up then, are you?"   
  
He moved away from the blinding fire. "Yes. I was waiting up for you."  
  
She swallowed thickly. Why was his tone so formal? And why was he looking at her that way? Harry was the type of boy who flitted in and out of eye-contact when he spoke to someone, as if wary of the emotional weather surrounding the other person's face. But now his eyes were locked to hers in defiance.   
  
"Sorry then," she said, unable to meet his stalwart expression. "Expect I must have fallen asleep....in the library."   
  
The excuse sounded suddenly ridiculous, even to her.  
  
"Spare me," he spat, also unconvinced.   
  
She froze, realizing that he wasn't merely annoyed with her--nor upset, not precisely. His look was one of mingled mistrust and....hate.   
  
Relishing the fact that she was speechless, he anchored his arms across his chest. "I gave you so many chances, you know."  
  
"Chances for what?" she whispered, the dull pain in her chest and stomach forgotten as something far more agonizing crept through her veins.  
  
"Chances to tell me who you are!" He said, his voice rising by octaves. Then, with savage reflexes, he leapt forth and took rough hold of her arms, pinning them to her bruised torso.  
  
-Oh please no not YOU Harry please no...- she thought mindlessly, biting down on her tongue to block out the eruption of fresh pain.  
  
"Quit playing dumb!" he condemned, daring to shake her just slightly. "I know you're not who you say you are!"  
  
-Those words...-   
  
Then she remembered where she had heard them. Or read them, rather.   
  
In those blasted notes, of course.  
  
  
**********************  
Am I sadistic enough to write two cliffies in a row? Apparently...Yes! And glory be, does Angst abound or what?   
  
explanation: Nott's first name is not listed in the Harry Potter lexicon; I've seen him called Alan and Mark by other writers, but I thought Roland sounded a bit more sinister. So yeah, there's my take.  
  
My birthday is Thursday the 6th--if you want to give me a present, a review would do just fine ;) 


	17. Macnair's Revenge

Mine Protector  
  
Chapter 17: Macnair's Revenge  
  
  
  
When asked to pinpoint the time and place when he felt furthest from his friends, Harry would always look back to the Dursley's and those hated weeks before his birthday. It was possibly the loneliest period he'd experienced since receiving his letter of acceptance to Hogwarts. Ron, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley were on holiday in Romania, visiting Charlie. The Twins were busy publishing their mail-in Weasley Wizard Wheezes catalog, and Mr. Weasley was spending night and day at the Ministry, trying to work around the divisions that were occurring between departments ever since you- know-whos 'alleged' resurfacing. Hermione wrote and described herself as very busy with her first summer job; quite appropriately, she was in charge of the children's' reading program at her neighborhood public library.  
  
Harry waited and waited for Sirius to send for him. Each morning at breakfast he expected post owls to rattle at the window, carrying Sirius' invitation to join him at the seashore, or perhaps to help re-construct an old farm house in Hogsmeade. Even sharing a room at the Leaky Cauldron would have been just dandy—anything was better than 14 Privet Drive.  
  
In early July, he finally received word from Sirius.  
  
// Before I can even think to provide a proper home for you, I have to build one for myself….//  
  
If he'd been able to use magic, he would have burned the parchment at once. As it was, he had to settle for shredding it to pieces by hand, which served only to invigorate his temper, it seemed.  
  
He had written to both Ron and Hermione soon after, too afraid to spill his anger out on the page uncensored, but yet unable to hide his feelings completely. The quill trembled in his hand, and the result was a thick, lopsided script--heavy as the weight on his chest.  
  
Ron, as usual, was at a loss for helpful words.  
  
//Gee Harry…I'm sorry it's come to that. But look up--we'll be back at the Burrow soon, and of course you're invited to stay in the weeks before school starts. By the way…did I tell you that Charlie let me feed the Hungarian Horntail you faced during the first task?....//  
  
Hermione was more sympathetic, but played the 'every cloud has a silver lining card' as per usual:  
  
//We were all hoping that you could finally go and live with Sirius now that he's a free man. I'm so sorry that things aren't working out that way, Harry, I really am…But what if living with Sirius isn't as you imagine it? He's been away from people for so long that I expect he'll want to re- adjust to society a bit before trying to settle down and be a father to you. But when the time is right, he *will* want to be your father Harry…I'm sure of that.//  
  
Funnily enough, Harry felt suddenly too old for a father at all. He turned Hermione's letter over in his hands, fingering the travel-worn parchment. As usual, she had written on her India-ink embossed stationary, which was imprinted with her initials and home address, the gold sealing wax monogrammed with the letter H in a voluptuous, palmer-hand script similar to her own.  
  
Harry had wanted to write her back at once, but found himself lacking the strength to do so; if only he had been able to phone her—he would have done so at once if it were possible to use the telephone without inciting the wrath of Uncle Vernon. Looking at her letter once more, Harry was reminded that Hermione lived east of London, near Ilford, specifically. He had never paid a visit to her home before, and neither had Ron, for that matter. Harry suspected this was because the Grangers were a bit uncomfortable amongst wizards and witches. Not uncomfortable in an officious, rude, Dursley-ish way, exactly, but on the few occasions that Harry had met the Grangers, he was aware of their quiet, unobtrusive demeanor—as if they were trying to fade into the woodwork. Other than the fact that they were both dentists and had high expectations for their daughter, Harry really knew little about Hermione's parents. How would they react if he were to show up on their doorstep for a visit? Would they welcome him in or send him packing?  
  
Harry weighed his feelings carefully—pent up frustration at the prospect of living with the Dursleys for another six weeks, paired with anger at Sirius, envy of the Weasleys and their Romanian vacation—and concocted a scheme to leave behind Privet Drive for at least one Saturday. While the Dursley's attended a Grunnings company picnic, Harry unabashedly broke all rules (in addition to ignoring orders to clean the rooftop drain-pipes) and left his Aunt and Uncle's house. He dared not use magic, knowing that it would at once alert both Hogwarts' staff and the Ministry of Magic, and instead opted to travel on his firebolt—draped in his invisibility cloak, of course. Several times over, Harry had promised the headmaster he would not leave the magically-protected territory of Privet Drive, and his only real concern upon departure wasn't that he would run into danger, but that Dumbledore might discover his disobedience and be filled with disappointment.  
  
The entire trip took longer that he expected; his firebolt was fast enough so that the actual flying only took an hour or so, but once on the ground he found he had to consult a street map several times before finding the Grangers' neighborhood. It turned out to be a very typical, tree-lined street, with tidy, modest-sized homes set back from the main road. The Granger house was painted a sunny yellow, a large bird-bath set in the middle of the front garden. Still under his invisibility cloak, Harry felt suddenly awkward at the prospect of knocking on the front door and facing Hermione. What would he say? "Sorry to drop by unannounced, but crazily enough you're the only friend I've got in this entire seventy kilometre radius, and it just so happens that I really need a friend right now"…?  
  
Stifling his embarrassment at the imagined scenario, he knocked anyway—but no one answered.  
  
At first he had been furious with himself; all that flying through smoggy London air, only to find that the Grangers were gone for the weekend. Then he decided to investigate; maybe someone was in the back, working in the garden. Or perhaps even a side door was left unlocked, and he could at least use the toilet and rest his feet before making the return journey to Surrey. He would leave the Grangers a note, of course, and apologize for the intrusion; but they seemed like nice people, he doubted they would be cross with him.  
  
Amazingly enough, the back door to the house *was* open, and Harry called out "Hello? Mister and Missus Granger? Hermione?" several times before tentatively stepping over the threshold. Silently, he tip-toed through the house, too nervous to leave even a fingerprint behind. The house was on the small side, but was furnished comfortably; it contained the usual Muggle appliances, such as a personal computer and a microwave, but interestingly enough, he found that the Granger's had several wizarding artifacts throughout the house, as well. Three or four elaborate sneakoscopes lined a shelf in the living room, causing Harry to quirk an eyebrow in surprise. The sneakoscopes looked too expensive to have been purchased for pure novelty purposes—one looked to be crafted of solid platinum—and he wondered why a pair of mild-mannered dentists would feel the need to place such powerful warning devices around the house. A shameful blush warmed his face, and Harry wondered, briefly, if the Grangers disapproved of their daughter's association with him—a boy who had undoubtedly led her into dangerous predicaments time and time again, causing them to worry for Hermione's safety.  
  
After using the washroom, and despite the fact that he already felt guilty for entering the Granger home without permission, Harry felt compelled to explore the bedrooms on the second floor. The first was so sparse it was nearly empty: a single queen-sized bed graced the middle of the floor, and a truck was shoved up against a window, piled with cushions so that it could be used a as a window seat. The second room was definitely Hermione's: parchment and painfully advanced-looking spellbooks littered the dresser and desk, and a half-drunk cup of earl gray was propped up on the radiator. The third room was completely empty.  
  
Seeing this, Harry had blinked in confusion. Could the first, sparse bedroom actually belong to Hermione's *parents*? For a bedroom, it seemed utterly un-lived in. There were no school-aged pictures of Hermione tacked up on the wall, nor were there bedroom slippers and magazines poking out from under the bed. The air was stale and uncirculated, the sheets on the bed perfectly smooth.  
  
-Perhaps her parents are on holiday, and she forgot to say so in her letter…- he rationalized, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. In any case, he was starting to feel more and more out of sorts inside the Granger home—nothing was at all how he expected it. He decided he had best leave, and quick.  
  
As he made his way down the front walk, flanked on both sides by flowering shrubs, the quiet neighborhood was disturbed by the unmistakeable hum of an approaching automobile. Mounting panic made Harry forget that he was invisible, and he quickly straddled his firebolt and ascended to a leafy bough in the Grangers' front yard, ducking for cover. A little tin-can of a car rattled into the drive, and a tall woman with hair as black as his own had exited the car, a wicker-work basket clasped in her hands. She was barefoot and wore an off-the-shoulder summer dress; her presence seemed unremarkable but for the fact that she unlocked and entered the Granger's home as if she belonged there.  
  
-Who *was* she?- he wondered, and the concern echoed in his mind during the flight back to Privet drive, his problems with Sirius and the Dursleys suddenly forgotten. The letter from Hermione that he received a few days later indicated that nothing unusual or new was going on in her life, and Harry found himself unable to write back and ask her why her parents' home was so strange, or who the dark-haired woman with the shoddy car was. –Maybe I was at the wrong address the whole time- he thought dully, though internally knew this wasn't at all the case.  
  
Soon enough, the Dursleys piled enough chores into his schedule to keep him busy until his sixteenth birthday, and Harry didn't recall the strange experience again until Ron, Hermione, and Ginny picked him up for his annual summertime escape to the Burrow. Hermione had been driving, entirely confident behind the wheel, when Harry was unexpectedly struck with the notion that Hermione had never, not in one of her letters, mentioned testing for her driving permit. And yet here she was, navigating the roads with the expertise of a pro. Additionally, there was something different about her posture, about the languid movement of her eyes, that put Harry at unease. Had she always been so much more adult than him? Why had he never noticed before now?  
  
By the time they boarded the Hogwarts Express a few weeks later, a strange truth had revealed itself: Hermione and the mysterious black-haired woman were one in the same, of this Harry was certain. As soon as Harry saw Crookshanks sleeping in his familiar wicker-work basket, he made the connection. But during the time he had been hiding up in the tree, Harry hadn't even recognized her, his own best friend. How could that be?  
  
Beleaguered with confusion, Harry remembered the sneakoscopes and wondered if Hermione and her family had been forced to take on disguises for the summer. Perhaps Harry's nightmare had come true and Voldemort was finally targeting his closest companions. On the other hand, if that were the case, wouldn't Hermione have told him? She usually told him everything. –Then again, she can be very cunning when it comes to secrets…- he thought cynically, remembering with a new, strange bitterness all the times she had kept him and Ron in the dark on a variety of issues: the fact that she withheld knowledge about Lupin's condition as a werewolf, for example, or the year she had used a time-turner to take additional classes.  
  
In the end, though, his friendship with Hermione won out. He wanted to give her the chance to confide in him before he formed any unfair suspicions against her. After much internal debate, he wrote her an anonymous note—nothing too threatening, just a few words that he hoped amounted to a nudge in the right direction.  
  
"I know you're not who you say you are."  
  
When the time was right, he would make sure she received it.  
  
-----  
  
  
  
"It was you…" Hermione breathed, and the disbelief that thundered through her was paralyzing. Even the pain she was in receded to the background; like white-noise in a seashell, it thrummed vaguely, almost hypnotically.  
  
"If you're talking about the notes….yes, I sent them," Harry said, finally loosening his hold on her shoulders. The look in his eyes, however, was still one of black fury.  
  
"But *why*?" Her voice cracked shrilly. "I had so many suspicions…Draco, mostly. Though I even wondered about Sirius, for a while. But you…." she trailed off, seeing him in a new light. Harry was angry at her. She was the one enduring the silly notes, dodging Death Eater attacks, and *he* was mad at *her*. Why? And what…or who…had led him to question her identity in the first place?  
  
"It started last summer," he began, as if sensing her thoughts. "I had this crazy whim to visit you—lonely, I guess—and when I found your house…well, it was strange. There were sneakoscopes everywhere, and not a single trace of your parents. And then you showed up…though I didn't know it was you at first. You looked different. Darker hair….older looking, too. I sent the notes hoping you would confide in me…tell me what was going on."  
  
She stared at him, renewed pain throbbing in her wounded belly. "The notes were meant to scare me, you mean," she clarified, a sharp edge in her voice. "Scare me enough to tell you about them, to seek you out for help." Silently, she remembered the strange phrasing of the second note: *Tell your friends who you are, or I will.* There it was: orders, more or less, to spill the deepest of her secrets to Harry and Ron.  
  
"Not at first," he snapped, looking at her as if she were less than human. "But that was when I still thought you were Hermione. And now I know that you're not."  
  
Hermione's narrowed her eyes. "I see," she said coldly, in a condescending tone remarkably similar to Severus Snape's. "And just how do you know who I am…or am *not*, for that matter?"  
  
Harry looked furtively over his shoulder, then turned back with a smile. Not the warm smile she had been greeted with over the years, but a crooked one that darkened the majority of his features. "Because of this," he said, and stretching out his hand, palm-up.  
  
She drew in a breath, at once recognizing what he held.  
  
It was her own fallacy stone.  
  
-----  
  
Throughout their exchange, Sirius sat in a far corner, magically camouflaged from Hermione's sight, and thoroughly sickened by the raw, unbridled quality of anger that was being exchanged between the two childhood friends. No…it wasn't even anger—it was almost *hate*. He could smell it filling the room.  
  
-My Gods…how have things come this far?- he wondered, pushing a hank of hair from his forehead.  
  
For Sirius, things had unraveled after his fatal mistake: the night he had followed Hermione into the dungeons, and then had followed his own lusts as he watched her bathe, touching her in a manner that now seemed like the product of a hazy-lit schoolboy fantasy. But it was no fantasy, it was a fact he couldn't escape while they both walked the same school grounds. Each time she passed within a few metres of him, he could smell her unmistakable scent, stormy and organic, making him undeniably aroused, and yet simultaneously dismayed at his own lack of self-control.  
  
And then there was the matter of her relationship with Severus Snape. Sirius didn't know what had happened between them, but it hardly seemed customary for a student to visit her professor while the rest of the school was sound asleep. Unfamiliar emotions nipped at his heels. He didn't know if he was jealous of Snape, or purely concerned for Hermione's well-being. Dumbledore might have held Snape in high regard, but Sirius knew better. The man had followed the majority of his Slytherin classmates directly into the arms of the Dark Lord, and he had tried to seduce Lily out of James', in the process.  
  
In retrospect, he decided it was a severe lack of judgement that caused him to approach Harry with the matter. Only last week, Sirius had casually asked Harry what his feelings towards Snape were, secretly intending to see if the boy was aware of Hermione's interaction with the potions master.  
  
"Like you should need reminding," Harry had replied, rolling his eyes.  
  
"So you still loathe him then, I take it," Sirius said, halfway amused. They were settled into one of their afternoon teas, in which they typically discussed Harry's favorite Quidditch teams, or Ron's recent, annoying display of studious activity.  
  
"More than ever," Harry growled, taking a loud swig of chamomile.  
  
"How does Hermione get on with him?" Sirius asked, tone neutral as he buttered a scone.  
  
"Ha! Gets the best of him in class, I tell you. Always one-ups him and he doesn't even know it…stupid git."  
  
Sirius frowned. "So she doesn't do extra credit potions work with him or anything?"  
  
Clearly baffled, Harry blinked before answering. "No. Why would she want to do that? She's the last person to need extra credit."  
  
Seeing that there would be know way to hide the truth from his perceptive god-son, Sirius reluctantly gave a *very* censored version of the events that had been haunting him for over a week.  
  
"You saw her come out of his private quarters? And this was *before* the sun had even come up?" he asked, incredulous.  
  
"Well, it hardly matters, I suppose." Sirius tried to dismiss the subject, taken aback by the alarm in Harry's tone, which was increasing by octaves. "What she does is her business, right?"  
  
Harry looked as if he were about to nod, but he opened his mouth to speak, instead. With much force, he told Sirius about the sneakoscopes in Hermione's home. About the dentist parents that seemed non-existent, and the mysterious black-haired woman that had looked just like Hermione.  
  
"It didn't just *look* like her," he corrected. "It was her. I'm sure of it."  
  
"So what are you getting at?" Sirius asked, knitting his brow together. "You think Hermione's got something to hide?"  
  
"Well, lately it seems there are things about her that just don't add up, do they? When I first met her she was too scared of heights to even go near a broom, and now she's the best beater to hit Hogwarts in years. And then that second note I sent her…she burned it right at the breakfast table. Right in front of my eyes. She wouldn't do that unless the note had scared her, right?"  
  
Sirius' frown deepened. "Maybe she knows you sent the note, and she burnt it in front of you to give you a turn?"  
  
Clearly, this hadn't occurred to Harry. "Even so," he protested. "The fact that she's consorting with Snape is just one weird occurrence too many…" he trailed off, the mechanics of a plan coming together behind his thoughtful expression.  
  
When Harry had stopped by his office just yesterday morning, Sirius discovered just what that plan had been.  
  
"I broke into her room…wearing the invisibility cloak," he panted, slamming the door behind him, his eyes wide.  
  
Deeply shocked by Harry's disrespect of Hermione's privacy, he had started to chastise him, but Harry wouldn't let him finish.  
  
"You won't believe what I found….mostly ordinary stuff, but then, there was a hidden compartment in her truck full of odd things. Some funny potion that smelled a bit like polyjuice, plus an odd stone. Looks like a polished river rock, but it has a smooth indentation on one side, and it's a deep green colour."  
  
This gave Sirius a turn. "That sounds like a magical object," he admitted. "But it still doesn't mean anything, Harry…don't you thinking you're jumping to con—"  
  
"I'm not!" Harry protested hotly. "Don't you remember what happened during my fourth year? Barty Crouch was here ALL YEAR and all it took to fool us was a little polyjuice potion. What if someone is masquerading as Hermione…one of the death-eaters? Or even Rita Skeeter....no one knows where she is these days, and she really has it in for Hermione, you know…"  
  
On and on Harry prattled, obsession surfacing like ugly, brackish oil. It wasn't that Sirius didn't agree with Harry in certain respects—there *was* something unusual going on with Hermione, that much was obvious. But Sirius' sensitive canine nose didn't lie. Every person he had ever encountered possessed a unique scent, a one-of-a-kind marker similar to a set of fingerprints. And Hermione's smell was the same one he had breathed in three years ago, the first time he had met her in the Shrieking shack. Back then he had associated her scent with thoughts of comfort, and with his own long-gone home, oddly enough. Now that she was older, he found that those thoughts ran closer to something like attraction…or possibly even love.  
  
And then there was Crookshanks, of course. He still followed Hermione to and fro about the castle, as faithful a familiar as any witch could ever want. The animal was most likely part-kneazle, and was the smartest feline Sirius had ever met, aside from Minerva McGonagall. If Hermione were an imposter, or a danger of any sort, the cat would have fled from her side.  
  
Of course, Sirius didn't know how he could tell Harry these things. How could he possibly assuage his god-son's fears, without owning up to his own recent blunders, his own inappropriate feelings?  
  
This was it. He was neatly trapped.  
  
-----  
  
"You don't even know how to use that," Hermione snapped, lunging for the fallacy stone in Harry's hand.  
  
Amazingly, he was faster than her, his seeker instincts allowing him to snatch the stone just out of her reach. "Oh, don't I?"  
  
"No," she said firmly. "And I can't believe you had the gall to search through my things, by the way." It made perfect sense now, she realized. Crookshanks hadn't detected a strangers' presence in the dormitory because there had *been* no stranger. Only Harry, whom he had known for years, and had never had a reason to mistrust.  
  
"I wanted you to come to me," he said, his face almost softening. "But you wouldn't."  
  
"Fine," she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her broken ribs felt fine, but the cut in her stomach rippled painfully with the gesture. "If you know how the stone works, then tell me."  
  
He stepped back a bit, looking wary. "Okay," he said finally. "On our way to potions yesterday I had the stone in my pocket. As we were talking, I noticed the weight of it would change when you spoke. I didn't think much of it at first, but it kept going on, making me wonder. Then, right as I was apologizing to you for being a prat, I said your name out loud and the thing felt as heavy as a bludger."  
  
"So?" she said impassively, her face rigid.  
  
"So?! So after you didn't show up for Defence lessons I showed the stone to Sirius…."  
  
"You showed it to Sirius?" she echoed, and felt dread travel from the base of her spine to the pit of her throat, catching her breath there.  
  
"…Yes. He said it was a type of truth-stone, used by Aurors for detecting lies. It was supposed to grow heavy when a speaker lied, and after I knew that it didn't take long to put the pieces together."  
  
"And what pieces are those?" she said pointedly, and he grew red at the hassling tone of her voice.  
  
"The stone went HEAVY when I said your name! So that means Hermione isn't your name at all! That's what it is, isn't it?"  
  
"What if it isn't my real name?" she said evenly, taking him off guard. "What then? Does that mean I'm your enemy Harry? Does that mean I'm not the same best friend you've had for years?"  
  
He was trembling slightly now, though she couldn't tell if it was from anger or fear. "I….I know you're not Hermione. You're not her. What have you done with her?"  
  
She sighed heavily. "I told you you weren't using the stone correctly," she said, this time moving fast enough to pluck it from his hand. He made a frantic grab for it, but she pulled away, hiding the stone behind her back. "Hold out your hand," she ordered.  
  
He stared at her, immobile.  
  
"Do it," she said sharply, and he reluctantly held out his hand, palm up.  
  
She placed the stone in the center, the indentation facing down, then closed his fingers over it in a fist. "You can't just feel it change weight and make your judgments at random. You have to ask it direct, specific questions. And even then, it takes practice to read the signals for accuracy."  
  
"How do you know that?" he asked, defensive.  
  
"Because it's *my* stone. Did you think I owned it merely for the purposes of decoration?"  
  
He shrugged and she released his fist. For a moment, the dim light in the room seemed to warp and swim, and his face seemed very far away to her. She swallowed hard, willing her eyesight to come back into focus. "Okay now," she instructed. "Repeat after me: 'the girl before me means me no harm, and is the same person I've long regarded as Hermione'".  
  
He shuffled about and rolled his eyes, looking as if he found this whole exchange insulting.  
  
"Do it!" she shrilled.  
  
"The girl before me means me no harm, and is the same person I've long regarded as 'Hermione'" he repeated tonelessly. She watched as uncertainty rippled across his features, almost erasing his antagonism completely.  
  
"Well?"  
  
"It…it went heavy. And…more solid-like," he admitted, looking amazed.  
  
She nodded. "Good. Does that at all put your mind to ease?"  
  
He studied her carefully. "Not exactly. It still doesn't tell me what's been going on with you."  
  
"What makes you think you deserve to *know* what's going on with me?" she challenged. "Sneaking around behind my back…never thought to just come forth and ask me, like any friend would. Did you?"  
  
He blushed faintly, but still maintained his defiant posture, regarding her with deep suspicion.  
  
"Look Harry," she said, a headache distracting her thoughts. "It's…almost sunrise. I'm very tired. I know I owe you an explanation. But please…can't it wait?"  
  
"No…" he said, looking on the verge of another outburst. "I've waited long enough. If you are my friend, then you know I deserve answers."  
  
She took a step towards him, and nearly doubled over as her entire torso cramped, agony pressing on her chest like granite. "Ooh.." she breathed, taken aback, clutching at her hidden injury.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asked, looking at her strangely.  
  
"I…" she started to say, then fell to her knees, groaning. Her muscles seemed to have taken complete leave from her body; she knew that they hadn't only by the cramps that seemed to be sealing her joints together. This was pain that went far beyond the bruises or knife-wound. –Is this 'Crucio'?- she wondered for a moment, biting down on her lip and tasting blood. But just as quickly as the wave of pain had come, it ebbed away, leaving her numb and….not right. Something was wrong…something.  
  
"Hermione!" Harry gasped, lowering himself to her side, his familiar concern finally returning.  
  
"Harry?" she asked, and the name felt thick and furry on her tongue. The light in the room seemed to be pulling away, and she could barely make out his face. "Get Snape…tell him to bring the knife."  
  
"The knife?" he asked, clearly baffled.  
  
"Don't…ask…" she said haltingly, finding that she was barely able to get the words out. No pain now, just extreme fatigue. Dangerous fatigue. She must not fall asleep. "Get Snape…he'll know. First torch…past potions classroom. Password 'brandywine'."  
  
"But…I shouldn't leave you," he said, sounding on the verge of panic.  
  
"Go.." she whispered, fighting the urge to lie on her side, to close her eyes to the surrounding darkness.  
  
She could no longer see the dimensions of the room behind her. Everything receded into black, and only the sound of his swift retreat gave her comfort.  
  
-----  
  
Snape paced the confines of his quarters, distraught. He had been quite furious with Hermione for intentionally handing herself over to Death Eaters; it was the type of show-offy, risky behavior that he associated with Potter, in particular.  
  
-Then again…who could she have been showing off for?..- It wasn't as if the entire school would catch wind of her late night activities. In fact, she had specifically come to him with her injuries to *avoid* questions from the other staff members and students, all of whom were sure to wonder if she had stumbled into the hospital wing with broken ribs and a knife- wound. But that didn't change the fact that she had gambled with her health and well-being.  
  
But she *had* been trained in Aurorship, which meant that she would always value justice over her own safety. –Which means she will always be putting herself out there, on the line…rather than cowering in a dungeon....-  
  
So that was it: he didn't know if he envied her heroism because it was something he himself couldn't afford, or if he admired her heroism and simply hated the fact that she might, one day, be taken from him.  
  
-Quit thinking of her as if she belongs to you..- he thought grumpily. Women like her didn't *belong* to anyone; certainly not former Death Eaters. Once Potter was finished with school, she would be working for Dumbledore as an Unspeakable, an enormous responsibility in which she would scarcely have time to pay late-night visits to a foolish, doddering potions master. No, it was best if he didn't interfere. She had a job to do…and so did he.  
  
Mentally grappling with these thoughts, he gathered up her ruined clothing from where it had been left in the bathroom. It felt dry enough to burn now, and he piled the scraps on the hearth; a single wave of his wand set the fabric ablaze, and he watched as the fibers curled up, smoking with blood and forest residue. When a pile of ashes remained, another wand- motion swept them directly into the fire place.  
  
But what was that? A small item was left behind, glittering under the cinders. Using the sleeve of his robe, he picked the still-hot object up, seeing at once that it was crafted from sturdy metal. It looked like the hilt of a knife; the very top of it was set with a red stone—ruby or garnet—and he pressed down on it with his thumb, not surprised when a blade sprung out from the base. So it was a switch blade, then…and judging from the emblazoned letter "M" on the hilt, this was most likely the very knife that had wounded Hermione. Why had she kept it, then?  
  
The knife was still stained with her blood, and he wiped at it absently, rubbing his fingertips together. But his potion-making fingers were extremely sensitive to organic materials, and he immediately sensed that there was more than just blood on the knife—there was something else there, too. A cold feeling of foreboding swept over him. –Let it just be mud….- he prayed, studying the point where blade and handle met, noticing at once the ring of yellow resin collected there. He brought a bit of it to his nose and sniffed. It had a bitter odour.  
  
"Digitoxin…" he whispered, to no one in particular.  
  
He should have suspected. As soon as she said Macnair's name, he should have remembered. But he had been away from the Death Eaters for too long; memories of their sadistic capabilities had long been shoved back into the furthest recesses of his mind. But Macnair….he should have known. In the day, one of the executioner's favorite pastimes had been inviting Muggle- born wizards to his house for dinner, and during the exquisitely prepared meal he would poison their wine. As soon as the guests were convulsing with the affects of the poison, he would gloatingly display several different antidotes, daring them to figure out which would cure them…and which would simply speed death along.  
  
"Digitoxin," he repeated, not quite hearing his own voice. Extracted from the foxglove plant, it was an arecardiac stimulant—sometimes used by medi- witches on patients who were in shock or had dangerously low blood pressure. But on a healthy human being, the digitoxin would cause full- blown digitalis: a rapid jump-start of the heart, followed by cerebral disturbances, then, eventually, a slow and irregular pulse. Without treatment, the body would continue to suffer the effects of overdoes, and finally shut down completely.  
  
He remembered lowering Hermione's body into the bath; her pulse had been very fast, thrumming through her skin in a way he could both hear and feel. At the time he had dismissed it as a product of nerves and increased adrenalin. But if the digitoxin had been in her wound, already seeping into her blood, the racing pulse might have been a first sign of poisoning. There it was: a symptom, right under his nose. And he had dismissed it for nervousness.  
  
He pocketed the knife, and, thinking fast, crossed his quarters, using his wand to unlock the desk drawer where he kept his most expensive and dangerous potion-making ingredients. He rooted through the vials, then finally found the leather pouch that contained what he needed. Once everything was in hand, he hesitated, realizing he was wasting precious seconds. Could he really swoop into Hermione's dormitory and shake her free of sleep, saying "Wake up, I think you've been poisoned?" How could he possibly handle this situation discretely?  
  
As if in answer, the bricks that guarded his quarters fell away; he jerked his head in the direction of the noise, desperately hoping that Hermione would be standing there, looking healthy as always.  
  
But it wasn't Hermione, it was Harry Potter, panting and rubbing a hitch in his side, his face blotchy with perspiration. "Hermione…said you should come…" he breathed.  
  
"Relax Potter," he said, uncharacteristically calm. "Is she displaying strange behavior? Fatigue? Sensory disturbances?"  
  
He nodded. "I think so."  
  
"Then we must hurry." Severus retrieved a small bowl from the fireplace mantle. "Is there a fire burning in your common room?" he asked.  
  
Harry nodded again. "Will she be okay?" he asked, refusing to move when Snape beckoned him near.  
  
"I don't know," Snape replied flatly, gathering a fistful of substance from the bowl. "We'll use the floo powder to get there faster." He dashed the powder into his fire, and with a loud crackle, the flames flared bright green. "You go first," he instructed.  
  
Harry finally stepped forth, entering the fire without hesitation. "Gryffindor common room," he announced, then disappeared in the swelling inferno.  
  
Fighting to regain composure, Severus followed at his heels.  
  
-----  
  
Sirius watched Hermione's condition with mounting concern; once Harry was gone, she dropped to all fours, quivering oddly, her half-lidded gaze lifted in his direction.  
  
"Aperio," Sirius murmured, swishing his wand. He was in full visibility now, but she didn't even blink. He took a few steps forward and she startled at the shuffling noise, sitting back on her knees, her robes puddled around her.  
  
"Hermione?" he asked tentatively, lowering himself to her level.  
  
She squinted. "Sirius?"  
  
"Yes. Can you see me?"  
  
She shook her head. "I thought I saw you, just for a second. But now it's gone. My eyes….everything's blurry."  
  
"What happened to you?" he asked, touching her wrist carefully. She pulled away from him, smiling weirdly, and then began unbuttoning her robes.  
  
"What are you doing?" A frantic edge had crept into his voice.  
  
The robes were pulled apart at the waist, and he saw that she was wearing a plain tee-shirt beneath them. Wordlessly, she lifted the shirt up a few inches. "What do you see?" she asked, looking weary.  
  
"You've been wounded," he said, noticing the pink, just-healing edges of a long gash, stretching length-wise above her navel. "But you've been cleaned up nicely….it's already healing."  
  
"That's what I was afraid of," she said, lowering her tee-shirt once more. "I'm sure the blade that cut me contained poison…and if the wound has already healed…" she trailed off, her face going pale despite the orange fire-light that played over it.  
  
"Then there is no hope of washing the poison out," he said dully, realizing the severity of the situation. So Harry had been sent after Snape in search of an antidote, then. Good. If anyone could deter a poisonous toxin, it would be him.  
  
"How did you get in here, anyway," she asked suddenly. "I didn't hear the portrait open and…" she paused, then convulsed slightly, her shoulders going limp. Sirius watched in horror as she fell to her side, eyelids fluttering with abnormal rhythms.  
  
"Hermione!" he exclaimed, shaking her lightly. There was no response. He felt along her neck for a pulse, finding nothing but smooth musculature at first, then finally touched on the side of a main artery. Her blood was still moving, but it was slow…so slow. He pulled her upright, fighting the urge to slap her into consciousness. "Hermione!" he said again, rattling her harder this time.  
  
"It was you…" she said dully, her eyes opening slightly.  
  
"Wake up!" he shouted, not caring if he woke any of the students. If Snape didn't get here soon, he would carry her to the hospital wing himself. He was faintly aware that she was pawing at his chest, her fingers flickering down the length of his torso as if in search of something.  
  
"It was *you*" she said, her voice clear and strong now.  
  
He stopped shaking her, the full realization of her statement hitting him at once.  
  
She giggled, and it was a delirious, frightening sound. "All this time I thought….but it was only Harry writing the notes. And it was you spying on me in the bathroom?"  
  
"I didn't mean it." His voice was hick with emotion. "I…I promise I'll explain later. Right now we need to get you help," he declared, gathering her stiff body into his arms. He half-expected her to swat him away, but she seemed beyond protesting, her eyes rolling back into her skull once more. He struggled to his feet, lifting her up along with him.  
  
"Don't fall asleep," he begged, running a thumb along her cheek.  
  
In answer, there was a roar of flames. Both Harry and Snape stumbled out of the Gryffindor fire-place, their robes faintly smoking. Noticing how Hermione was held close to Sirius' chest, Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously. He moved in and touched her wrist, checking her pulse, and his touch seemed to bring her back to consciousness.  
  
"Severus…" she whispered, reaching out for him. With little effort, he gracefully pulled her from Sirius' arms and into his own. The fabric of her robes slipped through his fingertips, and he bit down a cry as she was taken from him, jealousy pinning him to the spot.  
  
"What's she been poisoned by?" he asked instead, his expression forcefully blank.  
  
"Digitoxin," Snape said, moving towards the fat lady's portrait. "I must get her to the hospital wing at once. She will be upset with me for taking her there…but there's no other way."  
  
"We're coming with you," Harry said, making to follow Snape's lead.  
  
"No," Severus commanded, his tone business-like. "Black, I need you to owl Dumbledore at once; he's in London with the Min—"  
  
"I know," Sirius interrupted. He wanted to protest this arrangement, but knew that Snape's orders were valid. Dumbledore needed to be told of Hermione's condition, the sooner the better.  
  
"And Harry…" Snape turned to face the boy. "Stay here until morning. Once she is awake, inform Professor McGonagall of the situation. As your Head of House, she'll want to know why her sixth-year prefect isn't at breakfast."  
  
Harry nodded reluctantly, looking as dissatisfied as Sirius felt.  
  
Snape studied them uncertainly, as if he were in want of better assistants. Then he gave them a slight nod and disappeared through the portrait hole, Hermione held tightly to his chest.  
  
-----  
  
Once he reached the hospital wing, the events speeded up and blurred together, taking on an unreal quality.  
  
"Digitoxin!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed, clutching at her ample bosom in dismay. "But how on earth…?" She trailed off, no doubt leaving a barrage of questions unspoken. She had long ago mastered the art of don't ask/don't tell.  
  
"Bring me your most accurate scales, Poppy," Severus said, lowered Hermione's prone form to a hospital bed. She had been fully unconscious for the past five minutes, and her breath came in labored, shallow wheezing.  
  
Poppy did as he asked, and quickly fetched him a handsome set of bronze scales. He set them on the dresser beside Hermione's bed, placing both Macnair's knife and a small leather bag beside them. If Hermione had simply swallowed digitoxin, there would be no need for such ceremony; there were plenty of expectorant spells that could have effectively removed the contents of her stomach. But since she had been poisoned through knife wound, the digitoxin had already made its deadly journey through her heart, contaminating her entire blood system. There was only one solution, and it was one that he found he scarcely had the courage to undertake. The only cure for severe digitalis was, in its own right, as dangerous as the poison itself.  
  
Snape shook the contents of the leather bag onto the scale plate: a few, waxy-looking dried berries, almost black in colour. He silently picked through them with his fingers.  
  
"That isn't Belladonna, is it?" Poppy asked, sounding horrified.  
  
"She needs Atropine," Severus said simply.  
  
"Oh, no," Poppy said, going pale. Snape refused to look at her. Atropine was a highly dangerous delerient, known to cause both paralysis and death in even small doses. But it was also an excellent antidote for digitalis. To administer the correct amount of belladonna, he would have to weigh out an amount that contained between 0.4 and 0.6 percent atropine. Anything less than 0.4 percent would be ineffective, but anything more than 0.6 would be fatal.  
  
As he ground the berries with Poppy's mortar and pestle, Sirius Black entered the hospital room, his expression dark.  
  
"I thought I told you to owl the headmaster," Snape growled, almost losing his concentration.  
  
Sirius shook his head. "I don't think that will be necessary. I have a feeling he's already on his way."  
  
"And why's that?"  
  
"One of the owls had an early delivery for me," Black said, then silently held up a copy of The Daily Prophet.  
  
"So?" Snape asked, his irritation mounting.  
  
"So read the first headline. I believe it mentions an old friend of yours."  
  
Snape stopped grinding long enough to lean forward and glance at the headline. It read: COMMITTEE OF DANGEROUS CREATURES BAFFLED BY LATE NIGHT MURDER.  
  
Beneath it, a picture of a large, mustachioed man was blinking and scowling.  
  
It was Walden Macnair.  
  
------  
  
Hermione was back in the pasture where Draco and his Slytherin friends had left her; it was still dark out, and, oddly enough, everything seemed to look slightly blue. The stars, for example, were bright pin-points of neon cerulean—the bluest colour she had ever seen. They twinkled conspiratorially, turning her blood cold.  
  
"Got you good, didn't I," a voice said, and she whipped around to find Macnair behind her, smiling broadly. The knife was still protruding from his gut, and he was bleeding again—great gouts of it were gurgling from his wound.  
  
"That's mine now," she said calmly, pointing at the knife.  
  
He shook a finger at her teasingly. "That's what you think." He giggled and started to walk away. Weirdly, she was compelled to follow.  
  
"I'm tired," she complained, and she was. Her legs moved so slowly, as if she were treading through syrup.  
  
"Think your smart, don't you?" he said, echoing their previous, real-life conversation. "Well you over-looked something big, out here in the forest."  
  
"Like what?" she said, frowning. He was moving to the opposite end of the pasture, right where the tree-line started. It was quite a distance away from where she had encountered him and Lucius.  
  
"Like him, for instance," he said, pointing. She followed the direction of his forefinger and saw a hooded man, carefully barricaded behind a thicket. He appeared to be watching something from a distance, and when she turned her head in similar manner, she nearly gasped at what she saw.  
  
She saw herself, nearly fifty metres away, struggling with Macnair. Lucius was crumpled to the ground nearby, clutching at his testicles. She watched herself break from Macnair's grip and race through the grass, her robes streaming behind her. Macnair gave chase and soon had her back in his murderous grasp; he used the knife on her, his laughter carrying all the way to her present position, and she winced—at the pain or the memory, she wasn't sure which.  
  
She began to shudder violently and rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to still the convulsions. Everything still looked so blue.  
  
"Why am I shaking?" she asked, and Macnair regarded her impassively, not answering. From a distance, she thought she could hear another man's voice calling her name. It was Sirius or Severus….or perhaps both.  
  
"Watch yourself," Macnair suddenly ordered, and she turned back to the scene playing out before her. She was still struggling with Macnair, wrenching his wrist back as he carved into her stomach. He hollered and pulled away from her grip, and she took the opportunity to push him brutally to ground, pinning him with all of her weight. In slow motion, she raised the knife in the air, both hands wrapped around the hilt, her face grinning maniacally.  
  
In horror, Hermione closed her eyes at the impossible sight: her other self, stabbing the knife into Macnair's body over and over again, blood and bits of gore splashing both of them.  
  
"That's not what happened," she insisted, her voice gravelly.  
  
"Maybe not….but this is exactly how *he* saw it," Macnair said, indicating the man hiding in the thicket.  
  
"Who is he?" She swallowed thickly, tremors wracking her limbs.  
  
"That's Roland Nott, senior," he said, flashing her a school-boys' smile. "You forgot about the third Death Eater, didn't you?" He tutted and shook his finger again. "Not very on the ball, I must say…"  
  
"Shut up." She gritted her teeth, fighting to keep her temper in check.  
  
"You didn't really think that obliviating Lucius' memory would be enough to cover your cute little behind, did you? Oh no…the Dark Lord is being filled in about last night's events right as we speak…"  
  
"I obliviated your memory, too," she reminded him.  
  
"Oh, that didn't do any good," he said, chuckling. "You see…I'm already dead."  
  
She leaned against a tree, the rough bark oddly comforting. She wanted nothing more than to sleep. "You're not dead," she said, impatient. "I healed you."  
  
"Oh no," he corrected, his voice almost gentle. "You killed me."  
  
"What a mean thing to say," she said, her voice sounding odd and disconnected to her own ears. The blue light was blocking him from her vision, and the surrounding forest wavered and faded out. Now she was standing in what looked to be an empty room, but the walls were strangely translucent. When she pressed her face to them, she thought she could see stars, moving at impossible speeds. The walls were soft, too…so soft.  
  
"Hermione…" a gentle voice said, and a hand touched her chin, pulling her away from the soft, soothing material.  
  
"What?" she tried to say, but the words wouldn't come. She opened her eyes. Dumbledore was looking back at her with his own.  
  
"Ah…you've come back to us," he said. In response, she rolled her head to the opposite side. It took much effort, and she saw that she wasn't in the forbidden forest, nor in any strange, soft-walled room. She was in the hospital wing. Poppy Pomfrey was standing not far away, her features set in a firm, anxious expression. Dumbledore had pulled a chair up to her bed- side, and Hermione realized with some embarrassment that the soft material she had buried her face in must have been his voluminous, velveteen robes.  
  
She tried to speak again, but found that she hadn't the strength. Noticing the silent workings of her throat, Dumbledore put a cool hand to her forehead.  
  
"Your voice won't come back for a few hours yet," he said. "So please, just go back to sleep. When the effects of the atropine have passed, we will talk."  
  
She gave him a final, pleading look, willing him to hear her thoughts.  
  
He frowned, concern etching his already-wrinkled face. "Just go to sleep," he said, then used his own fingers to tenderly push her eyes shut.  
  
The sudden darkness was too much, and she felt herself slipping back into slumber. Still, a burning question remained on the tip of her mind, lingering and unspoken.  
  
Was Macnair really dead?  
  
  
  
***************************  
  
  
  
Okay, so that was a semi-cliffie. But the chapter was getting LONG, and well, this seemed like a natural end-point. So forgive me! Please! I promise I won't do it next time!  
  
My descriptions of digitoxin and atropine are loosely based on real-life definitions, but I added a bit of my own guess-work, as well.  
  
JKR and the HP books never mention Hermione's actual place of residence. I chose the Ilford/Essex area because it was a good distance away from Surrey, and because I believe that's where Maggie Smith (who played McGonagall in HP) was born. =)  
  
Thanks for all those birthday reviews. They made my day! 


	18. Consequence

Mine Protector  
  
Chapter 18: Consequence  
  
  
  
"Have you ever seen so many flowers?" Ginny said, leaning forward to sniff a few slender irises that had been set on the windowsill. Other flowers and plants, ranging from simple gerber daisies to fanciful orchids, were crowded on the bedside table.  
  
From her hospital bed, Hermione smiled weakly. "I'm pretty sure Harry got five times this amount when he won the tri-wizard tournament."  
  
"That plus a few howlers," said Ron thoughtfully. There had been a few people unwillingly to believe that Harry hadn't somehow been involved in Cedric Diggory's death, after all.  
  
"Who's that from?" Ginny asked, wrinkling her nose and pointing at an odd, fuzzy-leafed plant, studded with a few black berries.  
  
"Professor Snape," Hermione answered, reaching out to stroke one of the oval leaves. From her office, Poppy Pomfrey tutted loudly, causing Hermione to stifle a laugh. Clearly, the medi-witch found the Belladonna to be a decidedly morbid gift—as did Professor Sprout, who had apparently required much cajoling before she would hand the poisonous plant over to Snape. But the Belladonna, paired with Snape's note, had been Hermione's favorite get-well gift of all. In spidery handwriting, Snape delivered a single line: //I trust this will come in useful the next time you are poisoned in the line of battle.//  
  
Harry or Ron would have interpreted the note as a pointed scolding, but Hermione knew better. Both the Belladonna and the note were actually subtle signs of Snape's interest in her well-being, and indicated that he had forgiven her rash, ill-prepared encounter with Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair.  
  
"Snape sent you THAT?" Ron asked the look on his face so priceless that it send both Ginny and Hermione into breathless giggles. "But...it's not even pretty!"  
  
Hermione couldn't help but smile at him fondly. He and Ginny were her first student visitors; before this afternoon, only staff members had been allowed in to see her.  
  
"What about these?" Ginny asked, indicating three white roses, blown open in full bloom. White had always been Hermione's favorite; knowing this, Ginny fingering one of the petals. "From Harry, right?"  
  
Hermione shook her head slowly. "From Professor Black, actually," she admitted, and the name felt foreign on her tongue; she had never, not once, though of Sirius as 'Professor Black' in the private sanctuary of her own mind. And as far as Harry went, she was already aware that he had not sent her any cards or flowers, a fact that made all the other gifts seem somewhat trivial.  
  
"Oh," Ginny squeaked, looking embarrassed. She pulled away from the roses and hurriedly looked out the window—actions indicating that she had noticed Harry's lack of well-wishes. Hermione watched the flame-haired girl silently; Ginny was a subdued individual, but she didn't doubt that a vast, worthy amount of perception lay beneath that still, untapped exterior. She somewhat reminded Hermione of herself.  
  
"Don't worry, Herm," Ron said, helping himself to a goblet of the mango juice that Hermione had requested in lieu of the usual pumpkin beverages that the house-elves seemed so fond of (presumably because Hagrid had an uncanny ability to grow out-sized gourds in large quantities). "I think Harry is feeling a bit responsible about what happened. You know how he goes on…always thinking that you-know-who will try to hurt the people he cares for and suchlike."  
  
Hermione nodded vaguely. The version of the story that she had given Ginny and Ron described a scenario in which she had been stunned on her way back from a late-night study session, and had later woken up to two masked men forcing poison down her throat. Snape had caught her stumbling back into the castle and, upon seeing her symptoms, had taken her promptly to the hospital wing. The rest of the school had caught wind of the story, but the rumour mill was in high gear; according to Ginny, Lavender was convinced that Hermione had pricked herself on an enchanted sewing needle that caused her to fall into a three-day coma—trust that girl to put a fairy-tale spin on the situation.  
  
Hermione felt slightly sickened: it was one thing to let the majority of the school accept a G-rated version of her encounter, but it was another matter entirely to lie to Ginny and Ron. More and more, she found herself resenting the fortress of cleverly-crafted scenarios and excuses that she relied on to keep her facade intact. Especially after where it had gotten her with Harry.  
  
"My…I'm awfully tired," she said, willing herself to lie once more. "Thank you so much for visiting, both of you…but I expect I should rest now." She yawned fitfully against her palm, eyelashes fluttering with feigned fatigue.  
  
"Be well," Ginny said, rising to her feet and glancing at Hermione with a penetrating, almost knowing expression.  
  
"I'll try," Hermione said, feeling quite alert as she watched the siblings go.  
  
-----  
  
From just around the doorway that led to the hospital wing, Snape watched the comfortable, friendly exchange between Hermione and the Weasleys. He was impressed: ever since he had discovered her secret, he had assumed she was merely the world's most convincing actress. Now he knew that she possessed more just an uncanny ability for deception; she genuinely *liked* Ron and Ginny Weasley, and was quite adept at tolerating most of her other classmates, as well—even Longbottom.  
  
And she even tolerated him: Grouchy Severus Snape, ex-Death Eater gone turncoat, potions master extraordinaire; he of the greasy hair and an unmatched love of scotch. Better yet, it appeared that she actually understood him; her veiled delight as she displayed the Belladonna to Ginny Weasley was enough to convince him of that. She recognized the plant for what it was: a peace offering, from a man who was decidedly unaccustomed to the phrase 'I'm sorry'.  
  
The sight of the rather benign-looking Belladonna plant hardly warmed *his* heart, however; serving a tincturn of Atropine to Hermione had been one of the most difficult tasks of his life. For forty-eight hours she had been magically restrained to the bed, her body bucking against the hallucinogenic, nerve-burning toxin. It reversed the effects of the Digitoxin all too well, and she went from near-catatonia to sheer delirium, her circulatory system prompted into dangerous overload. He didn't want to know what kind of hell she had experienced, unconscious under that clashing mixture of ill-sorted toxins.  
  
He had sat beside her for the first three hours, pressing cool compresses to her forehead. The muscles of her neck had stood out vividly, ropey and taut as she gnashed her teeth, trying to bite off her own tongue--a simple cushioning charm insured that she wouldn't do so, but it was still a horror to witness, especially when paired with the gargled moans she emitted from time to time. At one point Potter had skidded into the room, pushing through the curtain that enclosed Hermione's bed before Sirius, who was standing guard, could stop him.  
  
"McGonagall is on her way!" he announced, then stopped dead in his tracks, eyes fixed open in shock at the site of his strong, once-lovely classmate, now made unrecognizable by the agony the flooded through her veins. Her hair, once so bright that it had reminded Severus of mahogany shavings, now soaked the pillow clean through with sweat, and clung to her cheeks in disarray. Complexion-wise, she appeared whiter than the sheets that she lay upon, if such a thing were possible.  
  
Severus glared openly at the boy's stupid expression of dismay. Sirius Black had already filled the potions master in on Harry's recent activities: owling cryptic notes, pawing through her private possessions, regarding her—his supposed best friend!—as someone worthy of suspicion.  
  
"So you wanted to know what she was hiding from you then, right Potter?" Snape had growled, his voice dangerously composed. "Well, take a good look…everything she does is for your own welfare—for very little reward, I might add—all to keep your ungrateful, meddlesome self out of harms way. What do you think of that?"  
  
Harry's mouth worked noiselessly, as if strung on a fishing line. He appeared beyond words.  
  
"Well?" Snape goaded, his anger mounting.  
  
"That's enough, Snape," Sirius said quietly. He parted the curtain and moved to his god-son's side, placing a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. But in Black's eyes, Snape thought he saw emotions equal to his own; he didn't doubt that Potter and his godfather would soon be exchanging a few terse words, once outside the hospital wing. Of course the boy wasn't directly at fault for Hermione's current condition, but he had unknowingly played a hand in this drama, just the same. The notes, the snooping—they had helped to put Hermione on red alert status. She had willingly allowed herself be delivered to the Death Eaters because she assumed they were the ones attempting to unravel her true identity; of this, Severus was certain.  
  
And now a man was dead. Macnair. And if Ministry officials could connect his death to Hermione Granger…well, there would be more trouble than they could handle.  
  
"This isn't my fault," Harry piped up suddenly; his shock had drained away and was being fast-replaced by staunch defiance.  
  
Unable to stop himself, Snape let out a long-suffering snort.  
  
"It isn't!"  
  
As if in response to his outburst, Hermione thrashed against her restraints, her throat releasing an inhuman keening sound, eerie as a banshee's wail. At the sound, Harry paled and stumbled for the curtains, looking as if he might be ill.  
  
"Harry!" Sirius called, making to go after him.  
  
"Let him be," Severus ordered. Reluctantly, Sirius drew back and complied, hauling the curtains shut again. Snape fought down surprise; he never thought he'd live to see the day when Sirius Black would willingly listen to a single word from his mouth—or listen without breaking into uproarious laughter, anyway.  
  
"He's not taking this well, you know," Sirius said, his tone icy. "And she *was* lying to him all this time, it seems."  
  
Snape almost laughed at Black's dramatic show of parental concern for the boy. Laying before him was his honest-to-god flesh and blood, his own long- lost niece, and the man was as good as blind. And foolish, as well—when Snape had exited from the Gryffindor fireplace, he had immediately noticed that tender way that Black had been stroking Hermione's cheek, her prone body held to his chest. It was the same kind of tenderness that Snape himself used when he held a cool cloth to her brow, or tucked the sheets in around her.  
  
Clearly, the man was over the moon for her.  
  
But so was Severus, however much he might be dragging his feet. And so he stayed at Hermione's side (silently tolerating Black's presence, all the while) until Dumbledore arrived from London, just an hour or two before noon. At that point, the headmaster had insisted that he and Poppy be left alone with the girl, suggesting that both professors go about their usual, daily routines.  
  
He might as well have suggested they take up belly-dancing lessons, or purchase Gilderoy Lockheart's entire set of instructional books against the Dark Arts. Teaching was the furthest thing from both men's minds—Severus himself had been too distracted to even deduct points when he caught Finnigan and Thompson sneaking a look at a Weasley-Wheezey whatever-it-was- called joke catalogue from beneath their cauldron station. Every free hour he had, he lingered just outside the hospital ward, waiting for Dumbledore's word on Hermione's condition. Sirius Black frequently did the same, as did Minerva McGonagall and a few other Gryffindors. Harry Potter, however, did not return to inquire after his friend's health.  
  
"It appears that the Atropine has done the job," Dumbledore finally reported; at this point, Hermione had been under the will of the poison for just over two days. "Her vital signs are normalizing, and she regained consciousness just a moment ago."  
  
"I want to see her—"  
  
"May I come in now?—"  
  
Both Sirius and Snape had spoken at the same time; they broke off abruptly, each man eying the other with barely masked contempt.  
  
"I'm afraid she awoke for only a moment; she is now getting some much- needed natural sleep." The headmaster regarded both men silently; the dark circles under his eyes suggested that he was not in the mood to deal with their renewed animosity. "I daresay that Miss Granger's *Head of House* is the only professor that need visit her at the moment," he added pointedly, silently reminding both Snape and Black that, to the rest of Hogwarts, it looked a bit *odd* that they were taking such an interest in Hermione's recovery.  
  
Seeing Snape and Black's equal expressions of hopelessness, the headmaster softened somewhat. "Please, Severus…Sirius. When Hermione is well, we will sort things out." And with that, he had slipped back into the hospital room; a wave of his hand shut the door in his wake, sealing the room from their view.  
  
But now—about twenty-four more agonizing hours later, in fact—she was chatting pleasantly with the Weasleys, and though Snape was watching this through the slightly-ajar hospital door, he was greatly comforted by the first sighting he'd had of her since Dumbledore's return. Her curly hair was pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, and she seemed smaller, somehow, but she was smiling, and making familiar, animated gestures with her hands as she spoke. Once the Weasleys stood up to leave, however, she limply fell back on the bed, apparently exhausted by their visit.  
  
"What are *you* doing here," Ron asked when he met Snape at the door, not bothering to hide his scowl.  
  
"Don't be so bloody rude…" his younger sister jabbed him in the ribs. "Professor Snape made the potion that saved Hermione's life! You'd ought to thank him," she said, sounding older than her years. Severus gave the red-haired girl an approving look, meanwhile providing both students a wide berth.  
  
"Well then," Ron said, looking uncomfortable. "Thanks, I suppose."  
  
"Your gratitude is duly noted," Snape said thinly, though without much enthusiasm. The Weasley boy gave him a perplexed stare, then took off down the corridor, being pulled along by his younger sister.  
  
Severus straightened his robes and involuntarily swept a few strands of his shoulder-length hair back from his forehead. –Enough primping, already…- he chastised himself. In a standard-issue hospital gown, Hermione would scarcely look her best, after all. Appearances were hardly a concern in events such as these.  
  
What was more of a concern to Severus was the manner in which they had last parted; he hadn't forgotten the angry speech he had slapped on her as she stood shivering in his quarters, wounds cleansed and healed, but the rest of her body already suffering the affects of Digitoxin.  
  
-All this coming and going…- he thought dully, leaning against a wall for support. His feelings for her tended to change from minute to minute: at times she resembled a mature woman of superior intellect and deep empathy; at others, she seemed no more than the insufferable third party member to a trio of legendary trouble makers, just waiting to stumble into evil's beckoning hands. The latter was, he knew, a reflection of the child she might have been, had her parents not been murdered, had her family name not been sullied by the imprisonment of her innocent uncle.  
  
He exhaled sharply, fully aware that he was at least partially to blame for her first, shadowy childhood as 'Helena'; he had been a Death Eater during the summer her parents had been killed, after all, and a Death Eater still when Harry Potter's parents were murdered just a few weeks later. And again: still a Death Eater when Sirius Black was dragged by Ministry Aurors to Azkaban, and given a life sentence without even the benefit of a trial.  
  
As for Hermione's duel identity, he had finally come to accept a few new realities. He felt passionate towards the woman that she was, and protective of the brazen child that she had been—but the most thundering realization was this: he loved them both.  
  
The question now, was: how could he tell her?  
  
-----  
  
Hermione looked up at the soft noise of someone entering the hospital ward. She was somehow hoping that it might be Harry, finally come to check up on her. The person behind the curtain was taller than Harry, though, and was lingering there as if not fully committed to announcing his presence.  
  
"Come in," she voiced, hoping to prompt the person into action.  
  
It worked. The curtains skimmed aside with one quick move of his hands, and the visitor was momentarily back-lit in sunlight so bright that she could scarcely make out his characteristic shock of silvery blonde hair. But the Slytherin-green robes said it all.  
  
"Hello, Draco." She straightened up and checked her bedclothes. Good, everything well-covered in that department.  
  
"Were you asleep?" he asked, his face still a washed-out blur of blinding sun.  
  
"No." She held a hand to her eyes, trying to blot out the glare. "Could you please close those curtains? I can barely see you."  
  
He complied, and her cubicle was once again comfortably shaded. Draco didn't bother to hide his interest as his eyes traveled over the cluster of flowers on the nightstand, then finally came to a rest on her alert, albeit pale and weary, face.  
  
"You don't look so bad," he remarked. "Not as fit as usual, but I can see that you're not dying."  
  
Her eyes darkened. "Is that what you're here for? To check on my health and report back to Daddy?"  
  
He shook his head casually. "'Daddy' doesn't even remember what happened, thanks to that whooper of a memory charm you laid on him."  
  
"But I imagine his 'friends' are working to extract that lost memory even as we speak, right Draco?"  
  
He looked taken aback at this second, uncharacteristic use of his first name. "Look," he said slowly, his lothario persona slipping away. "No one knows I'm here. I came to see that you're okay…that's all."  
  
She couldn't help but allow a touch of amusement into her expression. She studied him over: beneath his open robes she could see that he was wearing a snug cashmere sweater and gray, worsted-wool slacks. Both items were expensively cut and fit his lean frame to perfection. From the cock of his hips, she read that the boy was used to having everything go his way. No, he wasn't worried about her…he was worried about himself. In particular: worried that she remembered who had stunned her down in the Slytherin corridors.  
  
"I'm doing well, Draco," she said smoothly. "How are *you* doing?"  
  
He jolted a bit, eyeing her with suspicion. "That's the third time you've said my name like that."  
  
"Like what?" she blinked innocently.  
  
"Like we're sharing a secret."  
  
"*Do* we share a secret, Draco?" She leaned forward, giving him the full boon of her stare.  
  
His normally pale complexion seemed to blotch up as her words moved him towards panic. She almost felt sorry for him; of the three boys who had stunned her, he alone had seemed concerned for her well-being, after all.  
  
"I thought you might remember some of that night," he said, forcing himself calm. "And you do, don't you?"  
  
She nodded carefully, a devilish smile reaching her lips. "I have to admit, Draco…when you stun a girl, you really do it like a gentleman. Just think…you carried me halfway through the Forbidden Forest and didn't drop me in the mud once."  
  
"What?...." His handsome face struggled with unfamiliar emotion. "You mean you weren't stunned? That whole time I carried you…you were faking it?"  
  
"I was stunned, but only for a few minutes," she said, quickly covering her tracks. "I didn't announce my recovery because I was curious as to where you were taking me. I figured it wasn't a seaside picnic…but I was curious, nonetheless."  
  
"Alright," he said, pulling his full lips into a thin line. "So let's stop pretending. We both know what I did to you, and believe it or not, I want to apologize. I really had no idea what those men wanted…but my father swore that you would be just fine." At this, he flashed her an almost- pleading look, an gesture that seemed to render him five years younger. "I didn't know that you would be hurt, erm…Hermione."  
  
She paused at his use of her first name. It might have been for affect, but somehow, she didn't think so. Rather, she had the impression that he had simply forgotten to call her 'Granger' or 'mudblood'. He was now collapsed in the chair by her bed, his hair mussed unbecomingly, all traces of his Malfoy dignity put aside. He didn't look sad….just weary.  
  
"Do you want to see?" she finally asked, and he lifted his face from his cupped hands, eyes peering over them uncertainly.  
  
"See what?"  
  
Without answering, and carefully insuring that her lower body remained covered by bedding, she lifted her gown until a few inches of belly showed, revealing the now-healed knife wound. The scar divided her torso like a reddish, uneven smile—not exactly pretty, but she found that she rather liked it.  
  
"Holy shit…" he murmured, his features frozen in disbelief. Yet…there was no shock. He had seen this kind of thing before—and perhaps even worse.  
  
"That plus four broken ribs…and some nasty bruising," she said lightly, covering herself once more.  
  
"Did my father do that?" he asked, sounding rather like he *hoped* the wounds to be his father's handiwork.  
  
"No…Macnair."  
  
"Oh, him. Figures," he snorted, only on him, the gesture seemed elegant. "Which reminds me…Nott's father is telling You-Know-Who's camp that you stabbed Macnair to death. Claims you tore him apart like some vicious animal. Is that true?" Now he was looking at her almost admiringly, as if he secretly hoped that *she* was a cold-blooded murderer.  
  
"Not at all," she sighed, a touch of exasperation entering her tone. "In my attempt to escape, we struggled. He fell on his own knife."  
  
"Oh," he said, face falling, and she almost laughed at his open show of disappointment.  
  
"And about scars…" she began, deftly changing the subject. "I don't suppose you have one you'd like to own up to, do you Draco?"  
  
He shot her a quizzical look, then, as she pointedly stared at his arm, he dawned on to the meaning of her question. "No, I have not taken the mark," he said, grimaced. "Father wants me to, of course, but Mother insists that it be postponed until I'm finished with school."  
  
Hermione was inwardly taken aback. She had glimpsed Narcissa Malfoy only once before, at the Quidditch World Cup. The woman had been tall, blonde, and willowy, possessing an air of remoteness that made her seem only partially attached to this world. But if what others said was true, and she really was part Veela, then Hermione could see how Lucius might lose an argument with his wife—once push came to shove, anyway.  
  
"But there is *someone* at this school who bears the mark," she insisted. "On Halloween someone tried to attack Ron Weasley, and deliberately showed him their marked arm."  
  
Draco grimaced. "That was Nott," he admitted, looking a bit sheepish about ratting his fellow Slytherin out. "He hasn't taken the mark yet, but he's fond of drawing it on with ink and brush, fantasising about the day he has the real thing. Quite a good calligraphist, he is."  
  
"So as far as you know, there are no student Death Eaters at Hogwarts?"  
  
He nodded compliance. "Not yet, anyway. There are quite a few in line, however. Father says it will be the largest generation of initiates since he himself took the mark. 'The Great Generation' is what he calls himself and his mates, you know," Draco added, rolling his eyes as if this were the most embarrassing thing he'd had to endure throughout childhood.  
  
A muscle in her leg cramped suddenly, and Hermione reached out to massage it, trying not to dwell on his revelation. Trust Lucius Malfoy to compare his motley clan of Death Eaters to the young soldiers who fought in World War II—The Greatest Generation, as they were called. "Draco," she started, meeting his eyes. "I appreciate you coming forward…but I don't think now is the time or place to air your father's dirty laundry."  
  
He looked astonished. "But I thought you'd want me to tell you things like this? I mean, once the Ministry comes to arrest you, you might need my testimony, right?"  
  
She started at him. "You think the Ministry plans to arrest me for Macnair's murder?"  
  
He blinked, mouth dropping open rather foolishly. "Won't they?" he stammered, color pooling in his cheeks. "And when they do, I'll come forward. There are plenty of things I've witnessed that could implicate my father for any number of crimes. Life-sentence crimes, too."  
  
"Draco," she said, saying his name without malice for the first time in her life, perhaps. "I think you're more interested in sending your father to Azkaban than protecting me. Am I right?"  
  
He nodded, but didn't quite have the decency to blush completely. He was still Draco Malfoy, after all.  
  
"Self-interested 'til the end, then…is that right?" she asked, unable to stop a half-grin from surfacing.  
  
He flipped his silvery hair in mock arrogance. "Well, I had to try, didn't I?" he remarked, almost returning her smile. He rose to his feet importantly, straightening his ever-shiny prefect's badge. "Well," he said, looking her over. "Good thing you didn't die, then. Half of those idiot Gryffindor's would fail potions if you weren't around to slip them suggestions."  
  
"Gee, thanks for the condolences," she snapped, though privately found his comment a bit amusing.  
  
"Sure thing." He moved to leave, but paused at the curtains to flash her one last, meaningful look. "And hey, Granger?"  
  
"Yes, Malfoy?"  
  
"Don't go telling anyone I paid you a visit. I have my reputation, you know."  
  
After he left, Hermione stretched out on the bed, giving a cautious sniff to her underarms. Ugh— talk about a not-so-fresh feeling. With the sweetest tone she could muster, she asked Madam Pomfrey if she might have a shower; the medi-witch didn't look crazy about the idea, but finally relented. But then, perhaps Hermione's ripeness had actually smelled up the room a bit, prompting Poppy into agreement.  
  
The hospital wing's bathroom was plain and serviceable; two shower stalls and two toilets, juxtaposed across from each other in blazing shades of white-on-white. With relief, Hermione saw that the shower had been sensibly outfitted with support bars and a little built-in stool, and she was able to sit back against the enamled wall and let Hogwarts' never- ending supply of hot water drench her to the bone for as long as she pleased. Hanging dispensers provided shampoo, conditioner, and shower-gel, all of it smelling like sun-warmed vanilla. It felt delicious to finally work a good lather into her hair and over her still slightly-bruised body.  
  
"Careful that you don't drown in there!" a voice suddenly called. Taken by surprise, Hermione shut off the roaring water and peeked around the shower curtain. Through the steam, she saw tiny Madam Pomfrey holding a bathrobe open for her. "Don't mind me, child," the no-nonsense witch said. "I've seen almost every student at this school in various states of nudity. I'm used to it."  
  
Nodding, Hermione stepped from the steam and toweled her body off as best she could before submitting to the nubby bathrobe's embrace.  
  
"Professor McGonagall has kindly brought you some of your own clothing," Pomfrey said, indicating a wall-hook from which a pair of Hermione's winter pajamas were hanging.  
  
Hermione screwed up her face. "Pajamas? I can't put on real clothes?"  
  
"That's right, missy! You're here until the end of the week…so that's one more day and night of bed-rest, at least."  
  
Hermione shrugged; she supposed the knee-length flannel nightshirt would be better than a scratchy hospital gown—even if it *was* printed with ridiculously out-sized, cartoonish daisies.  
  
"Now clean yourself up right, child. Dumbledore and the others are here to see you."  
  
"The others?"  
  
"That's right. Professors Black and Snape. The three want to meet with you privately," she grumbled slightly as she announced this, looking as if she didn't approve of private meetings, even if they did happen to involve the headmaster and two additional staff members.  
  
The medi-witch left her alone then, and Hermione wrung her long hair into a towel, distracted. So the time had come for her to give the headmaster an official report on Monday night's events, then. –And just how much, exactly, am I supposed to reveal?- she wondered. –Especially with both Sirius and Severus present?- Was this Dumbledore's signal for her to come clean with her Uncle? Would she even have to speak, or would he headmaster take care of the explanations for her?  
  
Bristling with nerves, she decided it wouldn't hurt to make them wait on her a bit longer. In a medicine cabinet she found a few Muggle-style beauty accoutrements, and set about replenishing her somewhat ravaged body. Moisturizer helped to brighten the skin that had gone unwashed for days, and there was some sweet-smelling talcum that she patted liberally on her shoulders and limbs. Her hair was still dampish to the touch, however, and she hesitated to pull it back into a ponytail. Finally, she decided to let it lay coiled down her back, unadorned; but when she pulled on the daisy- splashed nightshirt and saw her wide-eyed, impish-faced self staring back at her in the mirror, she couldn't help but blanch. Her recent experience must have caused her to lose a few pounds, because her eyes seemed frighteningly enormous above her slightly-hollowed cheeks, and her head was a bit too large for her now less-than-curvaceous figure.  
  
Some Auror. And so much for the self-possessed, strong Quidditch beater.  
  
She both looked and felt all of thirteen years old.  
  
-----  
  
-So it's to be a meeting of the minds…- Snape thought drolly, his arms crossed over his chest. Sitting on a single hospital bed, he, Black, and Dumbledore (who had wisely placed himself between the two men) waited patiently for Hermione to emerge from the washroom. Each time he heard her bump a drawer shut or run the water, he stiffened; he wasn't in favor of this so-called meeting, in which Hermione would no doubt have to re-live the events of both Monday night's attacks and her recent poisoning—or double poisoning, if one counted the Atropine as a second type of overdose, as Snape certainly did.  
  
Late this morning, just after the Weasley siblings departure, Snape had been stopped from entering Hermione's room by Dumbledore himself, who pulled the potions master aside, saying: "A word, Severus, before you look in on Miss Granger?"  
  
Snape had never been one to turn down the headmaster's requests, and he listened patiently as Dumbledore laid out the details of an extremely grave situation.  
  
Roland Nott, Senior, had apparently decided to take the fall for Lucius Malfoy. He had come forth to the Ministry and put his own job with the Department of Magical Creatures on the line, claiming that he had witnessed Macnair's murder. Not only that, but Nott, Sr. (or Rollie, as he preferred to be called) had been able to provide the name of Macnair's murderer; he had seen the girl several times, of course. She was hard to miss, because aside from being a prefect and Quidditch player at Hogwarts, where his own son Roland Jr. was a sixth year, she was also the one and only Harry Potter's best friend.  
  
The girl Nott named was Hermione Granger, of course.  
  
The Official Ministry seal had been delivered to Dumbledore that very morning; a personally signed letter from Fudge detailing that, in two weeks time, Miss Granger would be required to attend a prilimary inquisition that was being held before a small jury, with Fudge himself playing the role of Appraiser. It was not a trial—not quite. The intent of the inquisition was to see if there was enough evidence to actually arrest Hermione. Typically, such inquisitions were un-necessary for wizarding trials, since most wizarding crimes involved magic, which of course left a signature easily evaluated by Aurors via 'prior incantato'. But the Macnair case was more along the lines of a common Muggle murder, and therefore required special circumstances.  
  
Now they were to lay the truth of this matter out for Hermione, and in return, ask her to lay out the truth for them, so that all four of them might hatch a plot to sidetrack Malfoy and Nott.  
  
*We're very sorry that you've recently suffered a stabbing and poisoning, but now the Ministry wants to arrest you for murder, you see…*  
  
At this thought, Snape physically shuddered under a wave of anxiety, rocking the hospital bed a bit, and was surprised when Dumbledore patted his knee twice in a warm, fatherly way.  
  
Snape looked at him sharply, but the headmaster was staring pensively out the window; snowflakes were beginning to freeze to the glass, catching all colors of the sun. Before now, Snape assumed that the old headmaster wanted him present simply because he had been the first one to see Hermione following the attack. Now he wondered of there was more to it than that. Was Dumbledore aware that Snape knew all about her undercover identity? Moreover, did he know that Snape had….feelings, for the girl?  
  
There was no need to ask why Sirius had been invited along—he was the girl's uncle, after all.  
  
But then again, he seemed to not *know* he was her uncle.  
  
Was that also to be revealed here, on this very afternoon?  
  
Before Snape could continue with his pondering, the bathroom door shuddered open and Hermione appeared, emerging from the rolling steam, pink-cheeked and looking no less lovelier than a siren in….happy-faced daisy pajamas? And fuzzy pink slippers?  
  
Seeing the goggled expressions that Black and Snape shared, she frowned and belted her bathrobe tightly, effectively hiding the flowers from sight. Dumbledore seemed unfazed—but then again, the headmaster probably wouldn't mind owning a pair of daisy pajamas himself.  
  
"Miss Granger," he said, face alight as he half-rose to beckon her forward. "It's wonderful to see you looking so clean and rested."  
  
"Thank you, Albus," she replied, and from the corner of his eye, Snape saw Black flinch slightly at her casual use of the headmaster's first name. "Professors…." She nodded tersely at both men.  
  
Snape tilted his head at her. Was it the silly pajamas that prompted this forced seriousness in her behavior? Or had she already guessed what they had come to tell her?  
  
Dumbledore finally broke the strained silence. "I think we can do with more comfortable seating," he said, and then, with a lazy wave of his wand, the adjacent hospital bed disappeared, leaving behind four cushy chairs and a round table, already set for tea.  
  
All four of them pulled up chairs and, when no one made a move from there, Dumbledore finally poured out. "I hope ceylon suits everyone…oh, and for a snack I thought we might munch on these, Miss Granger…" with that, he slid a brown-paper parcel in Hermione's direction. A knowing expression blinked across her face and she ripped off the paper, revealing a shoe-box packed with…a most peculiar assortment of food.  
  
"What are these?" Sirius exclaimed, unwrapping plastic from a funny white disc that, after he gave it a tap on the edge of the table, crumbled into several pieces.  
  
"Rice cakes," Hermione said, looking as if she were trying to choke back laughter.  
  
Sirius picked up a shard of the cake and chewed cautiously. "But…it doesn't taste like anything! It's like eating…crunchy air!"  
  
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Sugar-free, you know."  
  
"I recognize these," Snape said, getting in on the act as he poked a long finger into the box. "Currants, right?  
  
"Well, almost. They're raisins," she shrugged.  
  
"Hermione," Sirius said, his expression grave. "Is someone trying to poison you again? This food is…simply awful!"  
  
"It's a care-package from Mannie," she said calmly, replacing the box-lid. "My 'parents' are dentists, you know. They only send me tooth-friendly treats."  
  
"You call your Mum 'Mannie'?" Sirius looked thoroughly perplexed.  
  
She opened her mouth to answer, but Dumbledore waved a hand, cutting her off. "We'll get to that in time, Hermione. For now…I'm afraid I have somewhat distressing news."  
  
Hermione sobered at once, her face a storm of conflicting emotions. "Macnair's dead, isn't he?"  
  
"How did you know?" Black asked, his eyebrows twitching in surprise. Unlike Snape—or even Dumbledore, for that matter—Black never seemed to keep his feelings in check.  
  
She paused before answering. "You could say it was just a hunch…but…"  
  
"But what?" Sirius prompted, ignoring the sharp wand-poke that Snape delivered into his leg from under the table.  
  
Hermione rotated her head until she was staring outside at the falling snow, her eyes distant. "Severus…the Atropine you gave me, it has a hallucinogenic effect, right?" She managed to look at none of them while asking this.  
  
"Yes, the poison is a very powerful delirient," he said, confirming her speculation.  
  
She trembled visibly, then tilted up her chin, apparently trying to collect herself. "While I was under the poison…I saw the most horrible things. Incredible things, too. And some of it was so beautiful…so incredible…" she trailed off, her expression rapturous at some memory, her features luminous in the watery winter light coming in from the windows. "Everything was coloured differently, so that at some moments the world appeared entirely blue, and at one point I found myself in a transluscent room from which I could view entire swimming galaxies. Only I was bigger than all of them…strange, isn't it?"  
  
The three men said nothing, and Snape thought he felt a collectively shiver pass between them.  
  
"But then…there were parts that were ghastly. I saw myself commit terrible acts….including a vision of myself in which I stabbed Macnair with his own knife, over and over again. When I was through, I watched myself roll around in his blood and do…unspeakable things to his dead body."  
  
Sirius let out a strangled cry, and Hermione jerked her head around, finally meeting their eyes. Tears were shining in her own.  
  
"It wasn't real, Hermione," Snape said, carefully choosing a detached, almost cold tone as he spoke. To speak softly would suggest sympathy, and that wasn't what the girl needed right now. What she needed was reassurance that the hallucinations were just that—the phantasms of a poisoned tortured mind.  
  
"No, they weren't," she said, relaxing every so slightly. "But when I woke up…I *knew* that he was dead, just the same." She lifted her teacup, and then, shaking too much to get a proper grip, lowered it again. "I swear to you…all of you…I did not murder Macnair. I even thought I had healed him. We struggled, and the next thing I knew, the knife was in his own stomach. It was just suddenly there...and it seemed like neither of us had touched it." With this, she gave Dumbledore a particularly meaningful glance, and Snape thought he saw the headmaster nod back at her imperceptibly.  
  
-And just what was that silent exchange?- Snape wondered, looking back and forth between them. In a paralyzing rush, he remembered bathing her after the attack, and how she had claimed to dispel Nott's curse by drawing a strong barrier spell out of thin air and around her body, without even meaning to. Using Anaemus magic…or so she had suggested. Had the same thing happened in her blind struggle with Macnair? Did she somehow, through an unwieldy, untapped Anaemus power, turn the knife on him with wandless, wordless magic?  
  
"Um…" Sirius cleared his throat, appearing embarrassed. "I'm sorry to back- track, Hermione, but I still don't understand *how* you ended up being attacked in the first place. I don't mean to have you re-tell it again, but I just don't—"  
  
"Don't trouble yourself, Sirius," she interrupted, her voice somewhat mechanical. "It's all fairly simple. Three Slytherins cornered me in the dungeons after hours and laid a heavy stun on me—which I managed to avoid. They carried me into a clearing inside the Forbidden Forest, not far from Hogsmeade, I assume. From there, I was left alone with Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair. Rollie Nott was watching from a distance, though I didn't know it at the time. Malfoy was on orders to extract information from me, and he had Ministry-grade veritaserum on hand. But I fought both men off…I ran. When Macnair caught up with me, he slashed me with his knife, then somehow stabbed himself, as well. After tending to Macnair's wounds, I obliviated both mens' memories and returned to the castle."  
  
Sirius shot both Snape and Dumbledore looks of bewilderment, running a hand through his shaggy hair--which seemed to be a nervous habit of his, Snape noted. "There's something I'm not being told, isn't there," he said slowly. "Why would Lucius want to use veritaserum on a sixth year girl? And…" he gave Hermione a lingering look "…I know you're strong. I've seen you at Quidditch…and moreover, I've seen how you *move*. You could hold your own in a fight, I don't doubt that. But I've also seen Macnair—the man was as solid as oak. How exactly did you fight him off? It just doesn't make sense…." Now he turned back to Snape and Dumbledore, seemingly wounded. "So I take all of this to mean that there's some big secret that I don't know, isn't there? And both of you must already know it." Again he shifted his gaze, this time directing it at Hermione. "That's why you've been hanging around Snape, isn't it? Whatever this secret is…he's known for some time."  
  
Snape winced, but shoved the feeling of guilt away. Black had actually just said the phrase 'I've seen how you move' to Hermione. He didn't plan on soon forgiving the Animagi that.  
  
"Professor Snape found me out by accident," Hermione said heavily. "But once he saw me making the potion, there seemed little use in keeping the secret from him."  
  
"What potion?" At this point, it didn't seem possible for Sirius to look more perplexed. "You don't mean polyjuice, do you? It's not like Harry said, is it?"  
  
Snape had no idea what Black meant by this question, but Hermione apparently did; her hand darted out quickly, touching Black's for a moment before she withdrew it and shook her head.  
  
"No…nothing like that." She looked at Dumbledore helplessly. "Please, Albus…where do I start? How much do I tell?"  
  
-She's not ready to tell him she's his niece…- Snape realized at once, feeling as if he'd been suddenly submerged in ice-water. –Why…why can't she do it?-  
  
The he remembered. It was because of Harry Potter, of course.  
  
Her friendship with him was already in need of a serious patching-up. If she managed to take Potter's godfather away from him now, by revealing that she was Black's blood relative…well, then…could the current rift between them ever again be made right?  
  
"There is no right or wrong way to go about this, Hermione," the Headmaster said, shaking his gray head. "Tell what feels necessary…and comfortable." Yes, of course…Dumbledore was always in favor of showing only what cards were needed for the next play—Snape was quite familiar with his tactics.  
  
Hermione sighed, her chest hitching for a moment as if she were on the verge of retching. Then she shook back her hair once, finally steepling her hands just beneath her chin. "Very well," she began, her voice remarkably steady for one who appeared so out of sorts. "Severus already knows some of this, but since he's never had it properly explained to him, so I'll start from the beginning." She indicated Snape with a slight nod, and Black shot him a peculiar expression. Was it one of jealousy? Snape couldn't be sure.  
  
"First of all, I'm an orphan. My parents were killed by Voldemort and one of his Death Eaters when I was seven. There were no other family members to take me in, so I was shuffled around in Ministry foster care for years."  
  
"Wait," Sirius interrupted at once, earning him a stern glance from the potions master. "How can you be an orphan? Your parents are Muggle dentists….you just said so."  
  
She gave him a rather fond once-over, as if she were explaining something complex to a child. "Don't worry, Sirius…I'm getting to that. So…where was I?"  
  
"Ministry foster care," Snape supplied, his voice gruff.  
  
"Ah, yes. Until the summer I turned eight, I stayed with a wonderful old witch; her husband was a Muggle dentist, and for years they had taken in orphans. There was quite a lot of them back then, you realize…all owing to Voldemort's reign of terror. The Fimple's—that was their name—house was always overflowing with children. Some of them were orphans like me, but a good number of them were the Fimple's own grandchildren. They had dozens, you see. Their home was a wonderful place to be…after what I had gone through. There were several cats and a large, rambling garden full of gnomes. In my memories, it rather reminds me of the Weasley house, the Burrow…a place full of so many people that it's easy to forget yourself, for once. I loved it there.  
  
"Once I turned eight, Mr. Fimple—Gannna, we called him—fell rather ill. Nothing fatal, mind you…but it was enough to slow him down, keep him in bed. The Ministry swooped in and told Mrs. Fimple that she had too many orphans to be watching after all by herself; she protested, of course, but it did little good. From there I was shuffled around, crammed into whatever foster family they could find. There were a few families who didn't ever want me, and I often got sent away despite the fact that I was well-behaved."  
  
"Why wouldn't they want you?" Snape interrupted without even thinking.  
  
"Because of the way in which my parents died, for one—and they were magical, Sirius. Not Muggles at all. But even though Voldemort had been defeated by Harry at this point, people were still worried. They were suspicious about caring for a child whose family had been targeted by You- Know-Who…and there were other concerns, as well…" she trailed off.  
  
-Of course…- Snape though, mentally slapping his forehead in disgust. –They didn't want her because she was a Black-  
  
"On the day my letter from Hogwarts arrived, I was genuinely thrilled. Finally, there would be an end to the dreaded foster care—save during the summers, of course. My parents left me a small estate, so the tuition was easily taken care of, and from the time I stepped into the Great Hall and marveled at its enchanted ceiling, I finally felt I had a home. I thrived at Hogwarts. I was made a prefect during my fifth and sixth years, and appointed to Head Girl position during my seventh. I played chaser on the Ravenclaw house team—"  
  
"What? Stop! Wait!" Sirius protested, half-rising in his seat. "Ravenclaw? Head Girl? But you're still a sixth year, Hermione."  
  
She smiled placidly, untroubled, and went on as if he hadn't spoken. "I was a model student in every way, but inside, my heart was decidedly black."  
  
Snape jumped at the double entendre, quickly glancing at Sirius to see if he'd been shaken by her choice of words. But he was only staring intently at Hermione, waiting for her to continue.  
  
"I could think of nothing aside from bringing Voldemort out of hiding and ridding the world of his presence, once and for all. I thought I might become an Auror for the Ministry, but Fudge laughed me right out of his office; it didn't matter to him that I had top grades and Dumbledore's seal of approval. I was female, and I was young. He looked at me and saw…nothing." She paused and knotted her hands into fists, pressing both to her eyes as she drew in a sharp breath.  
  
-Fudge….she hates him. I'm not sure if this will help her at the inquisition, or hurt her…- Snape resisted the urge to squeeze her shoulder, knowing that she had to get *this* particular poison out on her own.  
  
"But Dumbledore offered me a way out. Albus?" She looked up at the headmaster then, her eyes faintly red-rimmed. "Perhaps you would be better at describing this part?"  
  
"Of course," he said, and the words seemed to have a soothing affect on her. He turned slightly in his chair, so that he was facing both men now. "Hermione graduated from Hogwarts in 1991, and during that period Fudge and I were trying to prepare for Harry's arrival the next fall. I wanted extra protection at the castle, as I was certain the Voldemort was still living, and still waiting to get at Harry. Fudge though I was dotty, of course. He believed Voldemort was gone for good, and was not keen on shouldering the expense that would be required to send additional Aurors to the castle. In Hermione, however, I saw a very unique opportunity. If Harry Potter required protection…then why not have his protector masquerade as a fellow student? One he could bond with, and see as an equal? Not only would this special friend protect Harry, but she would help him grow, as well—help him fulfill his potential, so to speak. I asked Hermione if she would take on this unique assignment, and in exchange, I promised to train her in the Auror Arts…and better than the Ministry ever could, at that.  
  
"Lucky for me, she agreed. But there was a more difficult challenge to face—her age, for one. Hermione was seventeen by this point, and since Harry would be only eleven, she would have to physically alter her appearance to that of a fellow first year. Not only was she required to look younger, but she also had to change her appearance enough so that her former professors, like Severus, here, wouldn't recognize her as their former Head Girl." He paused, evaluating Black's tight, astonished face. "Hermione? Perhaps it's time you picked up the thread again…"  
  
She jumped in at once, as if she had been rehearsing. "I invented a complex potion, you see…one that both regressed my physical age by several years, and had a subtle, non-traceable confundus effect. It didn't matter that I didn't look very different. The confundus effect insured that I would remain unrecognized. Once the potion was perfected, if was fairly easy to slip back into the role of a first-year. I was excited, in fact. I think I wanted to out-perform my old self—see if I could get more than fifteen O.W.L.s the second time around."  
  
Sirius was staring at her with what seemed to be interest…combined with suspicion. "So how old are you really, then?"  
  
"Twenty-two," she answered, and Snape saw Black jolt in surprise.  
  
"This must be what you were meeting Snape about…and during the summer, you must not take the potion…" he mumbled, mentally working the situation over as if she weren't in the room. "And this summer, that's when Harry saw you…he knew it was you, but he saw you were different?"  
  
She nodded. "And now I need to tell him the truth. Once I've found the best way to do so…"  
  
"There's still a few things I don't understand," Sirius said, pushing himself away from the table slightly. "Why did you have to come back as a Muggle-born, for one?"  
  
She smiled vaguely. "When I chose my new identity, I knew I had to become someone insignificant. Someone with no notable wizarding past. Changing myself to a Muggle was the easiest way to do this. A few days after I accepted Dumbeldore's proposal, I visited Mannie—Mrs. Fimple—for the first time in years. I told her what I planned to do with my life, and thanked her for caring for me when I was young, when I thought I had nobody. We both cried a little...and I told her I was changing my name to Hermione. That was her name, you see. Hermione Fimple. Ever since then, Mannie and Ganna have gladly played the role of my dentist parents, when I've needed them too. I don't ask them to do so often, as they're both getting on in years…but Mannie still sends me plenty of sugar-free snacks." She fingered a piece of rice cake absently, a small smile playing on her lips.  
  
"Wow…" Sirius breathed. "You really thought of everything, didn't you?"  
  
She looked up at him sharply. "I had to. Albus was depending on me, and so was Harry…though he didn't know it then."  
  
Sirius nodded. "He'll know now…though I'm not sure how he'll take it, honestly. I don't think he'll be happy to know that his best friend has all along been…well, a babysitter," he said, looking a bit disillusioned.  
  
"She's not a babysitter," Snape growled, and Sirius startled, as if he had forgotten the potions master was there. "Believe me…I've been teaching Potter and Weasley for years, and Hermione has always been in on their fun and games. She's always…belonged with them, it seems."  
  
Hermione gave him a pained look, as if his words had wounded her.  
  
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Now that some history has been revealed…perhaps we should return to the present?" he suggested. With a clap of his hands, the tea service disappeared, and they had no choice but to concentrate on one another. "Hermione…there is a second issue we must discuss. Macnair."  
  
"Yes," she said, straightening up. Snape couldn't help but notice that she looked far more comfortable at the prospect of discussing Macnair's murder than she had while relaying her past. "The Ministry has plans to charge me, don't they?"  
  
Even Dumbledore seemed astonished by her calm speculation. "No...not yet, Hermione. But a Preliminary Inquisition has been arranged for two weeks from Saturday."  
  
Hermione bit her lip in thought. "That's the last weekend before the Christmas holidays, isn't it? Who will be in charge of the Inquisition? Who is the Appraiser?"  
  
Dumbledore paused for a very long time.  
  
"It's Fudge, isn't it?" she declared, her voice squeaking. She looked fearful at first, then gradually, Snape saw that familiar, steely resolve assert itself. She apparently *relished* the thought of going up against Fudge.  
  
Serverus himself was less confident. He knew the Death Eaters. For years, he'd witnessed their operations first hand. And when the Death Eaters wanted to bring someone down badly enough, they almost always got their man.  
  
Or, in this case…Woman.  
  
****************************  
  
to be cont.  
  
Thanks for reading. Feedback is appreciated! =) 


	19. On the Edge of Being

Mine Protector Chapter 19: On the Edge of Being  
  
For the next week, Hermione's name was on the lips of almost everyone at Hogwarts. If Rita Skeeter had still owned a set of Quick-Quote-Quills, Hermione's reputation would have never recovered; of this she was sure. As it was, the gossip ratio was still quite staggering: students, old and young alike, were speculating on Hermione's connection to the recent Macnair murder, and their concern over her recent hospitalization had inexplicably dissolved. In fact, a few took her mysterious illness as nothing more than rock-hard evidence that she *was* involved with Macnair's death, especially considering that the illness had befallen her right around the time his murder had been announced. To make matters worse-and despite the fact that Rita Skeeter was officially in 'retirement'-the Daily Prophet still managed to print a rather scathing blurb about the upcoming Inquisition.  
  
THE TOO-PERFECT PREFECT?  
  
//Roland Nott, Sr., who works for the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, has recently named a suspect in the murder of Ministry co-worker Walden Macnair, who last Tuesday was found dead in a empty pasture, located not far from the Village of Hogsmeade. Nott has accused a sixth-year Hogwarts' student, Hermione Granger, of brutally stabbing Macnair to death. An official Inquisition into the matter has been scheduled for Saturday, December 14th.//  
  
//The Muggle-born Miss Granger is a prefect, a starting Quidditch player, and is currently top of her class-but is perhaps best known for being one of Harry Potter's ex-girlfriends. Miss Granger has also been romantically linked to Bulgarian Quidditch seeker Victor Krum. It is not yet known what Miss Granger's connection to Walden Macnair is, though an anonymous Ministry worker has informed the Daily Prophet that, during her third year, Miss Granger was violently opposed to the planned execution of a dangerous hippogriff that was living on school grounds. Coincidentally, Walden Macnair, as a representative from the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, was appointed as the hippogriff's executioner. Unfortunately, the hippogriff escaped before it could be disposed of. The creature's whereabouts are still unknown.//  
  
With a single deft gesture, Hermione squashed the clipping into a ball, then casually pushed it to the other side of her porridge bowl. She felt at least a dozen eyes on her as she did this. Was this what life had been like for Harry, on and off this five odd years? Receiving suspicious glances when he was believed to be the Heir of Slytherin, and bracing the whispered rumours during his fourth year, when much of Hogwarts assumed he had hoodwinked the Goblet of Fire? Of course, she had received some dodgy glances around that time too, especially when she had been seen at the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum.  
  
"Don't let them get to you," Ginny said softly, and Hermione looked up to see that the girl had sat down across from her, and was now busily buttering toast. Hermione wasn't sure if Ginny was referring to the Daily Prophet article, or the fact that both Harry and Ron had seated themselves a fair distance away from her at breakfast. Ron had flashed a quick, apologetic look in her direction as he did this, but Harry behaved as if she didn't exist.  
  
He had been getting good at that lately.  
  
Hermione sighed and stirred her porridge fitfully, finding that she had no appetite. She and Harry were in desperate need of a one-on-one talk..or even an all-out confrontation, if it came to that. He was quite good at avoiding her while there were masses of fellow students to disappear into, but by the time the Holidays came, he would find it more difficult to throw her off the scent, as they would both be occupying a nearly-empty Gryffindor tower. She would approach him them, if it came to that. Providing that, following the Inquisition, Hermione wouldn't be arrested on charges of murder.  
  
"Are you going home for winter Hols, Gin?" Hermione asked casually, finally giving her porridge spoon a rest, trying to force away a mental image of herself dressed in gray Azkaban robes.  
  
"Erm, no." Ginny said, mid-bite into her toast. "Hardly anyone over fourth year is going home, what with the Wassail, and all."  
  
"Wassail?" Hermione blinked. She had no idea what Ginny was referring to.  
  
"Well, yes. It's all anyone's been able to talk about for weeks." As soon as the words left her mouth, Ginny blushed hotly, dropping her toast. "Of course! Oh.how silly of me. You were still in the hospital wing when the announcement came."  
  
"What announcement?" Hermione was beginning to feel a touch embarrassed. Hospital wing or not, she was definitely out of the social loop these days.  
  
"From Lee Jordan and the twins," Ginny said, grinning. "The Weasley's Wizard Wheezes are officially taking residence in the back-half of Zonko's, and to celebrate the grand opening, they're holding a Wassail on Christmas Eve, in the Hogsmeade Town Square."  
  
Hermione couldn't help but mirror Ginny's grin. "So Fred and George are finally going legit, are they?"  
  
"Yes. Mum and Dad still aren't entirely sold on this business venture, but I think they're both happy that the twins are finally moving out of the Burrow. They were running a laboratory out of Ron's bedroom-explosions at least three times a day, according to Dad." Both girls laughed lightly at this.  
  
"So why a Wassail, then? That seems awfully.traditional, for the twins." Hermione chose her words carefully. She didn't want to outwardly accused Ginny's brothers of being party animals, but at the same time, she didn't really believe that a Fred and George related bash would include nothing more than mild-mannered caroling and bottomless mugs of hot apple cider.  
  
Ginny reddened slightly. "Well, I doubt there will be much actual tradition involved."  
  
Hermione nodded hazily, and returned to stirring her porridge. Trust Fred and George to come up with a good cover for what would probably amount to a debaucherous pub-crawl. That certainly explained why only fifth-years and up were invited-which meant, of course, that Gryffindor tower wouldn't be so empty after all.  
  
"Well then," Hermione said, forcing brightness into her words. "That should be fun. I look forward to it.provided I'm able to attend, that is."  
  
Ginny gave her a mournful look, setting down her goblet long enough to reach across the table and touch her hand. Hermione startled slightly; she had never been as close to Ginny as she was to Ron, but she was suddenly struck with the distinct feeling that the youngest Weasley had full comprehension of the burden she had been carrying these last few days.  
  
"We'll be at the Inquisition, you know. Both Ron and I. The twins are coming, as well, and I know that Dad will make it if he can," Ginny said, squeezing her hand once and letting go.  
  
Hermione swallowed heavily. "What about Harry?"  
  
"He'll come," Ginny said, her expression firm. "And if he doesn't want to, I'm sure Sirius will see to it that he shows up."  
  
Hermione winced slightly at the sound of Sirius' name, and was relieved when Ginny seemed not to notice. Even now, Hermione was aware that Sirius was watching her from the high table. One glace in that direction confirmed her suspicion; he met and held her gaze high, unflinching, a barrage of questions reflected in his dark eyes. She pulled free and dared to look at the opposite end of the high table; Severus was there, but unlike Sirius, he was not looking in Hermione's direction. Instead, he was staring at Sirius himself, regarding the Dark Arts Professor with only slightly-veiled disdain.  
  
Hermione swallowed and forced herself to look away. She had been avoiding both men for several days; after relaying so much of her personal history, she felt all three of them needed some breathing space from each other. She was particularly interested in dodging Sirius, though it was painfully obvious that he was simply dying to speak with her privately. It was written in the foolishly heated glimpses that he peppered her with during mealtimes, and the trilling manner in which he pronounced her name during class. From his lips, it sounded more like the prayer of a man trembling on the verge of ecstasy-Her-my-ooh-neee-causing her to blush clear down to her toes.  
  
She suspected he wanted to discuss what had happened between them in the prefect's bathroom-and all those smoldering glances suggested he was even fantasising about a second go. At this realization, she took a nervous sip of pumpkin juice, blanching at the thick sweetness. She couldn't deny that she had responded to his touch-but during that strange encounter she had been fully unmindful of that fact that it was her half-Uncle who was touching her. And besides that, the invisible person she had been imagining was *not* Sirius.it was Severus.  
  
Severus Snape, who had more or less dismissed her from his life with a single phrase: 'She's always belonged with them'. Belonged to Harry and Ron, he meant, which she in turn interpreted as a revelation of his true feelings. In his eyes she was a child.a Gryffindor. He cared enough to save her life, but he apparently did not care enough to invite her into his.  
  
A fluttery panic seized her heart. So this was what it felt like to be rejected by Severus Snape. Somehow, she hadn't expected it to hurt so much.  
  
She tried to inconspicuously look up at the high table again, using her peripheral vision to study both professors. Of the two, Sirius was undoubtedly the more handsome, with his tan, chiseled features and casually disheveled hair. Not to mention that ever-present leather coat. It was rumoured that Sirius regularly received secret-admirer notes and love- tokens from students, and even a Slytherin or two had been caught lingering around his office with moon-eyed expressions of adoration.  
  
And then there was Snape; he shared the same dark hair color as Sirius, but that was where the resemblance ended. And while memory of Sirius' hands might have given Hermione a shiver, only Snape possessed that single, smoldering gaze capable of triggering a tingle in the center of her navel that quickly traveled to her inner-thighs, where it deepened and radiated all the way down to her ankles. Rather than handsome, Snape was *dangerous*. Even looking at him across the distance of the Great Hall caused her thoughts to spool away; overhead, the enchanted sky was alive with whorls of snow that danced listlessly between the rafters, and Hermione's senses were held somewhere up there, caught in a delicious breeze.  
  
"Are you worried that Snape will dock you for missing Potions last week?" Ginny asked softly, interrupting Hermione's reverie.  
  
"Hmm?" Hermione shook herself back to the table, blinking her eyes rapidly. "Oh, I think I'm in good shape. I have the highest Potions grade of all the sixth-years."  
  
"True. And he *did* save your life with the Belladonna. So I'm pretty sure he knows how sick you were."  
  
Hermione pulled on a strand of hair, thoughtful. It was fair to say that Snape had more or less saved her-or his thorough understanding of poisons and antidotes had saved her, anyway. She was also pretty sure that little Madam Pomfrey didn't have the stones to use poison as a cure for poisoning. This fact served to complicate Hermione's growing attraction for him, however. If she confessed her feelings now, he was sure to dismiss them as the product of some gratitude complex, in which the rescued damsel feels somehow indebted to her heroic rescuer. Yes, that would be just like him, the stubborn git. Come to think of it, she rather resented the fact that he was invading her thoughts like this-especially when she had more pressing concerns, like the Inquisition, and Harry..  
  
"Hermione?"  
  
She looked up at once, her eyes bolting to Ginny's blue ones, which were alight with concern. "Yes? Is something wrong?"  
  
"No.but hadn't you better be on to Herbology?"  
  
With sudden alarm, Hermione noticed that most of the Great Hall was empty by this point, and that much of the breakfast dishes had already been cleared.  
  
"Um.of course. I was just on my way."  
  
-----  
  
For the past several years, Hermione must have been too busy tagging after Harry and Ron to notice what a loyal friend Ginny could be. Ignoring the fact that Hermione was the subject of this week's scandal du jour, she had graciously offered to accompany her to Hogsmeade on the last Saturday outing before their pre-holiday exams. Hermione wanted to get some Christmas shopping done, but was more importantly in need of a new outfit appropriate for the Inquisition, which was fast-approaching. Aside from school robes, most of Hermione's clothes were Muggle-made-it only made sense, seeing as how she was known as a Muggle-born witch. But at the Inquisition, she suspected that looking forwardly Muggle-ish could be a giant strike against her; she needed some proper witch's attire. Something that screamed 'Pure-blood conformist', rather than 'Wannabe undercover operative'.  
  
That was how Ginny and Hermione ended up walking to Hogsmeade together, both bundled and swathed in several layers of wool. Ginny's winter cloak was a sunny yellow and black plaid, and against it her hair shined like copper rivets. Hermione admired it silently, wondering why she had chosen a plain, asphalt-gray cloak for herself. Even her muffler was gray. Gray- sheathed girl against a gray-clouded sky. Apparently, her habit of trying to fit in had insured an existence of never standing out. She couldn't help but wonder if it was time to start taking more fashion risks. Her life was already full of other risks-bodily and psychological-so why not commit to some of the more decadent and fun risks, while she was still free to do so?  
  
Because of the recent snowfall, the path to Hogsmeade had been more or less transformed into a steep toboggan chute; drifts rose on both sides to create a shady canopy, and when they entered the village it was more like descending out of a mine-shaft. Once fully emerged, Hermione blinked rapidly in the sudden brightness. The sun was out and the village was crawling with students and visiting shoppers, all of them pink-cheeked and smoky-breathed. Many of the residents had decorated their front gardens with seasonal décor and props; one house, in particular, featured elves on ice-skates who capered about on a frozen pond (magically landscaped, no doubt). Some merchants had tied mistletoe to their lamp-posts, and Ginny laughed merrily at the sight of Lisa Turpin and Terry Boot, who had apparently taken the decorative touch as an invitation to snog in public.  
  
"Where to first, Hermione?" Ginny asked genially, her eyes brightened by the festive air.  
  
"Hmm. How about Gladrags? Might as well get the biggest purchase over with." Hermione studied her little coin purse waveringly. She had plenty of galleons, truth be told, but it didn't seem proper to reveal this particular fact-though compared to Ron, Ginny had always seemed far less concerned about her family's necessary knut-pinching.  
  
"Allow me to lead the way," Ginny said, making a sweeping gesture with her arm. "I make an excellent personal shopper."  
  
Hermione had been inside Gladrags before, of course; on those occasions, however, she had always cut a path straight to the serviceable, student work-robes. There were racks and racks of them located near the front cash register, all in varying shades of black and charcoal. Another nearby rack displayed specialty school robes; also usually black, but trimmed with house colors and crests. Hermione already owned one with Gryffindor red trim, which she saved for special dinners and prefect meetings.  
  
"Gah!" Hermione complained, pinching the sleeve of a black robe between her forefingers and rubbing the coarse material with disdain. "I already have dozens of these. Isn't there anything a bit more colorful?"  
  
Ginny looked at her as if she'd started speaking in tongues. "Hermione.this is just one part of the store! There's a whole back room stocked with the latest Witchware fashions. Didn't you know that?"  
  
"Erm, no," Hermione said, dropping the sleeve at once. "If you want to be fashionable in my neighbourhood, you just run down to Next."  
  
Ginny smiled quizzically. "Follow me," she said, making for the archway just beyond the school robes.  
  
Stepping through, Hermione was nearly floored by the sea of garments displayed before her. Even though she wasn't a genuine Muggle-born, she had never really developed a taste for Witch's clothing-and now she remembered why.  
  
-The room runneth over with cinched corsets and sheered bodices.- she thought dryly, eye-balling the nearest rack in hopes that some of the tighter items came with a complimentary vial of smelling salts. Floor- length gowns were clearly the staple here, and the fabric of choice was anything floaty, shimmery, or gossamer-not a sturdy acrylic blend in sight. Hermione was strongly reminded of a Renaissance Fair gone horribly awry.  
  
"Well?" Ginny beamed, too busy fingering a gold-spangled shawl to notice Hermione's growing expression of panic.  
  
"Um.isn't there anything around here that's a bit more...subdued?" Hermione asked, almost choking on her words.  
  
Ginny laughed merrily. "Don't be ill yet, Hermione," she insisted. "My Dad always says that wizards have a tendency to show off around one another. Dramatic flair, if you will. Now if you want to make a good impression at the Inquisition, you need something Witch-tailored, but not too terribly flashy."  
  
Hermione blanched. "Ginny.everything in this room is flashy!"  
  
"Only on first glance," she assured, pushing past the front displays and signaling Hermione to follow. "Now.something like this would be just perfect," she said, voice muffled as she dove forth to wrestle a gown out from a rather crowded rounder.  
  
Hermione studied the suggested dress critically. It was made out of cinnamon coloured crushed velvet, with a burn-out floral design running up and down the sleeves and front panels; the bodice was low-cut and designed to be laced up with silk cording.  
  
"Well.if it weren't for the cleavage-popping bodice, it would be all right, I expect," she finally said, putting the gown back in Ginny's hands.  
  
"Hmm.yes, that is a bit saucy, isn't it?" said Ginny lightly, cramming the dress back with the others. "What about this one? It's just your colour, I think." She held up a second gown, one made of satin that was matte- finished, rather than shiny (much to Hermione's relief). It was a stormy blue colour, tight in the bust but modestly square-necked, with three- quarter length sleeves. Cut on the bias, at mid-thigh the dress split down the front to reveal a second layer of deep lavender silk--sheer enough to be sweet, and only slightly provocative.  
  
"Bingo. This will work," Hermione said firmly, removing the dress from Ginny's grasp.  
  
"You don't want to try it on?"  
  
The thought of having to play dress-up made Hermione itchy. "No. It's my size.and you already know I'm not picky. So let's take it to the register, shall we?"  
  
"Okay," Ginny agreed, but looked a little put out that Hermione had made her decision so quickly.  
  
The dress cost quite a fist-full of galleons, but that didn't stop Hermione from impulsively adding a red, curly lambswool muffler to her order. It went a long way in cheering up the gray expanse of her winter cloak, and both she and Ginny left Gladrags feeling quite gratified.  
  
At a new and popular store, Ike's Impossible Imports, they browsed for Christmas presents. Ginny and Hermione went in together on a three- dimensional jig-saw puzzle for Ron; when completed, the puzzle would stand knee-high and serve as an accurate, cross-section model of Egypt's Great Pyramid. For Harry, Ginny purchased a fancy Quoting-Quill not unlike Rita Skeeter's, which would be useful for class note-taking, and after much inner debate, Hermione finally decided on a book about Hungarian Horntails; the forward was written and autographed by Charlie Weasley himself, and the last chapter actually mentioned Harry's Tri-wizard Cup encounter with a Horntail. Not the most original gift, perhaps, but she had been giving Harry books for years; to buy him a nickel-plated pocket-watch now would look a little dodgy, as if she were attempting to buy back his friendship with elaborate gifts.  
  
"Are we all done, then?" Ginny asked wearily; it seemed that some of her shopping gusto had finally been sapped.  
  
"Almost," Hermione smiled. "I still have to buy you something, though." In actuality, she had noted the gold-spangled shawl that Ginny had been admiring in Gladrags, and had asked the sales-witch to sneak it in with the rest of her purchases.  
  
Ginny blushed. "That's right; I have to find something for you, as well. Shall we split up for a while, then?"  
  
They made plans to meet back at the Three Broomsticks in one hour, which left Hermione with plenty of time to skip over to Honeyduke's, where she procured a large quantity of treacle fudge for Hagrid, and a boxed assortment of sherbet bonbons for Dumbeldore. After deciding on a new brand of sugarless chocolate for Mannie and Ganna, Hermione's shopping spree should have been complete. Instead, she was left with the rather nagging feeling that she had forgotten at least one or two important purchases.  
  
Back at Ike's Impossible Imports, two more items caught her eye, seeming so appropriate that she drained the rest of her coin purse just to buy them. The first was a small token gift for Sirius-more of a joke gift than anything, but fitting for their odd sort of relationship, nonetheless. The second was a slim, polished mahogany box, inlaid with a handsome gold border, and equipped with a voice-activated locking charm-a top-notch security device. When opened, the box revealed a velvet-lined interior that cushioned ten genuine crystal vials. Hermione spent two additional galleons to have the lid engraved so that it read Property of Severus Snape in gold-leaf script.  
  
Now weighed down with packages, Hermione made a quick trip to the post- office; from there, she sent Mannie and Ganna's gift out to Enfield via a large screech owl, along with a letter she'd written the night before that detailed the upcoming Inquisition. She held out little hope that the elderly couple would actually be able to pose as her parents on such short notice, which was fine; Hermione's 'parents', as Muggles, weren't really expected to attend the Inquisition. Muggles were, as a general rule, discouraged from visiting the Ministry at all, even if their offspring happened to be magical. Dumbledore and McGonagall, as Hermione's Headmaster and Head-of-House, would be representing themselves as her Guardians-which were their actual, legal roles as long as school was in session. Once she said goodbye to the screech owl, her cargo only felt a bit less weighty; luckily, the Three Broomsticks was only a few doors down High Street.  
  
Outside, though, she was nearly bowled over by Pansy Parkingson and Blaise Zabini, who were holding several large parcels of their own as they clicked down the cobblestone walk, not bothering to look over their towering loads. Pansy crashed into Hermione's back in what seemed to be a deliberately careless move. "Watch it, Little Miss Mudblood," Pansy snarled, using a tone that would have made a harpy cringe.  
  
Hermione side-stepped the two girls as gracefully as possible, not bothering to bestow either of them with a smart comeback.  
  
"Eww! There's a filthy dog following you, Hermione," Pansy said, wrinkling up her already-pug nose.  
  
"What are you talking about?" Hermione demanded, spinning around. In doing so, she almost stepping on an enormous, shaggy black dog who was panting at her heels. She narrowed her eyes at once; it was Sirius, in Animagus form.  
  
Blaise studied Hermione with cool indifference; unlike Pansy, Blaise had never been openly antagonistic towards her until recently. A slight girl with auburn hair, Blaise was rumoured to be dating Roland Nott, and if that were true, Hermione guessed she probably wasn't up for any awards in caring and benevolence. And as if to prove this, Blaise said: "The dog is probably attracted to her smell, seeing as how they're both in need of a good bath."  
  
Ignoring Blaise, Hermione glared at Snuffles, who was looking up at her and wagging his tail eagerly. "Go away," Hermione hissed, lifting her foot in a threatening motion.  
  
The dog whimpered pitifully, giving her his best, innocent puppy-eyed gaze.  
  
"Were you just about to kick that mutt?" Pansy asked, her eyes wide. "Wow.maybe you really are a murderer!"  
  
"Yes, yes right.because pretending to kick a dog is just as simple as murdering a human. You would see those two acts as similar, wouldn't you Pansy?" Hermione retorted, unable to keep her cool any longer. And with that, she turned on her heel, ignoring Snuffles' little leaps for attention.  
  
"WOOF!" It was no good. The dog was running alongside her now, occasionally darting out to cavort around her legs; to just keep her balance was fast becoming a chore.  
  
"WOOF!" again. The dog stopped a few metres in front of her and bent over his front paws, cocked down as if he would attack. She ignored him and kept walking, aware that a small crowd of people were beginning to stare. Suddenly, a giant rip sounded, and she pulled up short. The Dog.the dog that was SIRIUS.was biting her cloak! Practically mauling it with his canine death-grip!  
  
"Fine!" she exclaimed, hearing a few passersby giggle at her predicament. "I'm going to leave my things in the Three Broomsticks with Ginny," she whispered, pretending to lean over and pet him. "Meet me behind the Shrieking Shack."  
  
In the Three Broomsticks, Ginny looked a little surprised when Hermione dumped her parcels on the nearest chair, but made no move to sit down. "Oh.I meant to send an owl off to my Auntie," Hermione exclaimed, slapping her forehead dramatically. "Can you watch my things while I run back to the post-office?"  
  
"Erm, sure," Ginny said, looking overwhelmed.  
  
"Thank you! I'll be back in ten minutes," she breathed, zipping out of the building before Ginny could say another word. Sirius would be lucky if she allowed him five minutes, after that snack-sized chunk he'd removed from her cloak.  
  
Just in front of the Three Broomsticks, a path split off from High Street, snaking up the hill to the Shrieking Shack. The recently accumulated snow- drifts provided adequate cover along the way, but as she was in no mood for taking chances, Hermione marched a knee-deep path around to the back of the old Haunted House. Snuffles was waiting for her, and his ears and tail perked up when she rounded the building's North side.  
  
"Change. Change right now," Hermione demanded. There was a flux of light and an odd crackling sound, and the dog disappeared. Then Sirius was standing before her, clad in leather boots and coat, a little snow clinging to the gloves that had been, moments before, paws.  
  
"Sorry I resorted to dog-antics," Sirius said, looking not a bit sorry as he gave her a toothy grin. "I had a feeling that the usual 'ask nicely' wouldn't cut it with you, this time."  
  
"Whatever gave you that idea?" She asked, trying to force her tone cold, but unable to push it much further than 'tepid'.  
  
"Where should I start?" He said quietly, extending one gloved hand and bringing his fingers to rest on her cheek-her face being the only visible flesh above her cloak and the new lambswool muffler. "You've barely said two words in class; you avoid me in the halls-though I have to say I've almost become used to that."  
  
She pulled away from his touch, the gesture that was at once fatherly and erotic, wishing it didn't feel good, as it undeniably did. "While we're here I might as well give you your Christmas gift," she said, hastily changing the subject. "Though I'm not sure who needs it more, you or Snuffles."  
  
With that, she dropped a bracelet into his out-stretched hand. It was a simple band of black leather, outfitted with three tiny bells, similar to something a cat might wear as a collar. Sirius stared at it wordlessly for several moments, then finally looked up at her, his eyes hurt and questioning.  
  
"I wasn't sure I saw it before." he said, his voice oddly flat. "But now I do. There's still anger in you, isn't there? That thirst for revenge from your youth that you described.it's still with you, all these years later."  
  
Her mouth dropped open. "Sirius." she said, her heart thudding painfully. "It was.just a joke. You know.the bells are for the whole 'sneaking up on me in the bath' thing. I thought.well.that we might have a good laugh over it."  
  
He stared at her, his brown eyes glossy-not with tears, but with something else. A certain brand of guardedness. "You thought what happened in the bath was funny, then?"  
  
She swallowed. "No. Not really. It was just.a mistake. Just an awkward situation."  
  
He shook his head, high colour fanning over his cheeks. Leaning in close, his mellow-timbered voice went uncharacteristically husky as he said: "It didn't feel awkward at the time.and it didn't feel like a mistake. From the moment I first saw you, right inside this very house, I felt a connection to you. I know it sounds silly-you were so very young, after all. Or I thought you were young, anyway, even though you must have been.what, nineteen? And then I saw you in the bath, and everything changed. So now there's only one thing I know for sure: touching you felt *right*, and in case you didn't know, I've got the memory of your skin worked into every one of my fingertips." He dragged a finger across her brow as if to demonstrate this, creating a trail of heat that seemed to seep into her brain, which at once sent a scorching jolt down to a dozen different body parts, all of them crying out to be touched by that singularly potent fingertip.  
  
"Please stop," she stammered, desperate to keep her body from shuddering. "This can't happen."  
  
He pulled back, taking his hot-gloved hand with him, and then chuckled in a throaty way. "We're not even doing anything, Hermione. All I did was touch your forehead, and you turned up at least twenty degrees. You can insist there's no chemistry between us if you want, but your body tells a different story."  
  
"I'm trapped inside the body of a sixteen-year old girl," she snapped. "What do you expect?"  
  
He laughed, not unkindly, but in a manner she found infuriating, nonetheless. "That excuse might work if you were male, Hermione..then again, I suppose it must have been difficult for you two or three years ago, to have had the mind of a mature woman, and be trapped in a prepubescent body," he said, regarding her curiously.  
  
"Look, Sirius," she began, feeling uncertain. "I'm not denying that you're very physically attractive-no woman in her right mind would deny it, after all. But there are all sorts of reasons why we can't become involved. We both have jobs to do, for one.and then there's Harry to consider-"  
  
"I know," he interrupted, taking on a more somber posture. "That's what I wanted to tell you, actually.that I have no plans to pursue you, despite what occurred between us on that night in the prefect's bathroom."  
  
She stepped back and nearly fell into a snow-drift, her eyes blinking in astonishment. "You have no plans.? Then why all that talk of chemistry?" she sputtered. "Why all that malarkey about how the 'memory of my skin' is in your fingertips?"  
  
"Wow.you were really paying attention to that, weren't you?" he grinned, hair falling over his eyes charmingly as he did so.  
  
"I always pay attention!" she retorted. "It's what I do best, as you should have noticed by now!"  
  
"Calm down, Hermione," he said, pawing her shoulder lightly-a motion that seemed to placate her instantly, much to her own disgust. When had she allowed herself to become so hungry for slight caresses? So desperate for crumbs of flattery?  
  
"That fact that I don't plan to pursue you doesn't mean that I've cut my feelings off.far from it," he continued, his face suddenly shadowed. "But I can't force you into my arms, so that's why I've decided to leave the ball in your court. So if you need me.as a friend, or as something more.just come to me. I promise to do whatever I can." he trailed off, wrapping his arms around his own lean midsection, as if suddenly chilled.  
  
"Very well," she said, trying to look dignified. "We'll begin again then.as friends, shall we?"  
  
"That's fine," he said agreeably, though his words seemed to carry an undercurrent of pain along with them. She reached out to shake his hand, and at the moment they clasped them together, his eyes were swimming with so much tenderness.so much care.that she very nearly sunk down to her knees, overwhelmed by feelings she didn't understand.not at all.  
  
She shook off the discomfort with a nervous laugh. "As your friend, then, I suggest you stop gazing at me ravenously during meals. I think the drool might start to make people wonder."  
  
He actually blushed, then tipped back his head to laugh heartily. She tittered a little herself, then hesitated before offering the crook of her arm. "Want to join me in the Three Broomsticks? Ginny's sure to wonder what's keeping me."  
  
"Don't mind if I do," he said, and began assisting her down the incline in a gentlemanly fashion.  
  
They were on the path towards High Street, murmuring amiably about the upcoming Holidays, when a sharp voice interrupted them.  
  
"Well, it looks as if everything is safe as houses around here. All chummy again, are we?" Harry rounded a snow-drift, hands propped on his hips, his face pale and questioning.  
  
"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, lunging forward slightly.  
  
"You." Harry glared at Sirius, ignoring her for the time being. "How could you walk with her after she LIED to us? For SIX YEARS, at that!"  
  
Sirius shook his head. "It's not how you think, Harry.she has the best of intentions, she does."  
  
"I don't care," Harry spat, and shot Hermione a look so full of hate that it made her physically ill. Trembling, she leaned against Sirius for brief support, then yanked away as if she'd been burned.  
  
"How much have you been told, Harry?" Hermione asked, sounding as hollow as she felt.  
  
"Everything. He told me everything," Harry pointed at Sirius, glaring. "How you came back to Hogwarts as an Auror, assigned to befriend and look after me. So I know the truth, you see," he said, sounded oddly self- satisfied. "The girl I thought was Hermione never existed and you're a bigger fraud than old Trelawny."  
  
Harry, it's not like that!" She cried, her eyes tearing over. "I am Hermione! I wasn't pretending to BE anyone.when I was with you I was just me-your best friend! You and Ron are the first real friends I made in my life, if you want to know the truth.everything we've done together, all the fantastic adventures we've had-I was with you for every single one! Don't tell me you've forgotten!"  
  
"Quit acting," he said coldly, drawing himself up to full height-which was nearing six feet, these days.  
  
"I'm not acting! Harry.oh Harry," she yammered, her mind spiraling out in conflicting directions. "I admit that I went about it all wrong at first. Remember how haughty I was in our first year, chasing after you, scolding you for breaking the rules? Then the Mountain Troll surprised me, and you and Ron were there, willing to put your own health on the line to save me. We were a team after that. Oh, we were such a great team! Remember? And Harry.oh God Harry I'm so sorry I couldn't stop what happened at the end of the Tri-wizard tournament.I didn't know Barty Crouch Jr. was still alive, otherwise I would have killed him for you. Do you hear me? I would have KILLED him before I would have let anyone hurt you." she broke off into hysterical, chocked panting, dipping forward until she was crouched on the ground. Oddly, some part of her was still sane enough to be grateful that they were out of High Street's view.  
  
Harry looked helplessly at his Godfather. "What's gotten into her?"  
  
Sirius regarded him mildly. "Do you think she's had it easy, these last six years? Do you thinks she really wants to lose your friendship?"  
  
"So you think she'd really care? If she lost me, I mean?" Harry asked in a small voice, speaking as if Hermione weren't even there. And for all accounts, she barely was. A small, alert corner of her mind was recording the exchange word for word, but the rest of her psyche was momentarily adrift.  
  
"Of course she would care. She cares about you as much as I do." Sirius said soothingly.  
  
"I know!" she declared quite suddenly, startling both men. "There's a way to make you see, Harry. I know you don't understand right now," she said, trying to collect herself despite the fact that her face was nearly unrecognizable, swollen and tear-stained. "But I can make you understand, Harry. At least a little. You have to come with me."  
  
Harry barely found the words to protest as Hermione shot forth and clasped onto his arm, leading him away at once. "Sirius, please tell Ginny I had to go back to the castle. And help her with my parcels, will you?" she called over her shoulder, sounding almost fully recovered now.  
  
"What are you doing?" Harry asked, tugging at Hermione's grip but finding it powerfully strong.  
  
"We're going to see Dumbledore," she said firmly.  
  
"Why?"  
  
She didn't answer, but only continued to march towards the castle, Harry in tow.  
  
Silently, she prayed that Albus would be in his office, and that he wouldn't mind lending her his Pensieve.  
  
-----  
  
Harry had been angry with Hermione before; after all, she had a long habit of bossiness, and had been the one to send his brand-new Firebolt to McGonagall for a hex-inspection, three years back. But that past anger seemed like nothing when compared to Harry's newly discovered rage, which filled his chest like an unleashed animal, frightening even himself. All these years, she'd been fooling him.fooling everyone. Beneath his rage was disbelief, and further down was undeniable hurt.  
  
And yet he wanted his best friend back. Vaguely, some part of him wondered if he could get his hands on a time-turner. He wanted to go back six months and stop himself from flying to Ilford; he wanted to forget the mysterious woman in the shoddy car, who had reminded him so much of Hermione.  
  
-I was better off not knowing.- he thought fiercely, silently cursing Hermione, Sirius, and even Dumbledore, the man he'd trusted implicitly throughout his life. What would it take for Harry to trust again, after this?  
  
When she had fallen to the ground sobbing, he'd almost felt sorry for her- she looked so much like the Hermione he'd always known, a few loose tangles straying against her cheek, her watery eyes tilted up at him in a gesture of childlike trust. And when she'd been in the hospital, precariously caught between life and death, he actually found himself praying that Snape could save her, and then actually thanking the man when he did, despite the fact that the Potions master still regarded him with open, razor-sharp hostility.  
  
But now she was marching him back to Hogwarts with a new-found determinism, clutching at his arm like an impatient mother, swearing to herself softly. She was exercising a new brand of control against him; now that he was aware of her true age, she was taking advantage of the six year difference, carrying on as if she were in charge. At this, Harry felt his anger re- bloom and take root.  
  
"You don't have to yank me along like a toddler!" he snarled, trying to free himself with very little result. Her hand was white at the knuckles, and as strong as an iron vice on his wrist. "Can't you just let me walk alongside you without all this added humiliation?"  
  
That did it. She dropped his wrist at once, and the strange squall of emotions that was blotting out her features seemed to clear. She paused and gazed at him uncertainly; unspoken words caught in the pulse of her hitching throat.  
  
"Just walk," Harry said simply, his tone almost rational. "And I'll follow, okay?"  
  
When they finally reached Dumbledore's office, Harry was surprised that she knew the password straight-off ('Rice cake'-which struck him as odd), but then again, she would be in on such things, having privately worked for the Headmaster all these years. Once they reached the circular room at the top of the moving staircase, Hermione headed straight for a black cabinet that struck Harry as very familiar.  
  
"What are you doing?" He asked, an edge of anxiety to his voice.  
  
From the cabinet she removed a stone-crafted bowl, the contents glittering and smokey-silver. "This is a Pensieve," she said. "Albus has recorded many of his memories into this little basin-a few of which should hopefully pertain to you and me."  
  
"I already know what a Pensieve is," said Harry flatly. "I've even been inside this one before, actually."  
  
Now it was her turn to be surprised. "What did you see?" she asked, sounding more curious than accusatory.  
  
He paused a moment, then finally said: "The Death Eater trials, mostly. Ludo Bagman's, for example. And Barty Crouch's, as well."  
  
At this, Hermione closed her eyes and steadied the basin on a table-top; she appeared to be taking measured, deep breaths. "You saw Barty Crouch's trial?" she croaked, opening her eyes slightly.  
  
"Yes. And why are you looking at me like that?"  
  
"You.you just could have told me," she finally said, and it seemed she was struggling not to give him a scolding.  
  
"Why? Do you think it would have helped you to nab Barty, somehow? Because I can tell you that there was nothing in that memory to suggest his true allegiance to Voldemort-I even felt sorry for the bloke, being put on the rack by his own father and all."  
  
She shook her head faintly. "Point taken. But I never knew you were in the Pensieve.I'm just a little surprised, I guess, to learn that you have secrets of your own."  
  
"Who doesn't?" he asked, giving her a penetrating look.  
  
She looked away. "No one," she mumbled, and then reached up to unclasp her cloak, peeling off layers until she stood in plain dungarees and a cardigan jumper. Without being told, Harry did the same, though like her, he palmed his wa`1nd before shoving the rest of his things aside.  
  
He waited nearby as she began to stir the fluid contents of the Pensieve with her wand. "This may take a moment," she murmured, her eyes glued to the swirling faces that rippled across the surface. A few leaped out of the ether and into full recognition: Harry saw a thatch of Hagrid's beard, a pair of blue eyes that could have belonged to any of the Weasleys, and carousing light off a pair of spectacles that might have been his own.or his father's.  
  
"Okay," she said, and tugged his hand into her own. Together, they reached forth and dipped their double-grasp into the bowl. The scenery shifted; there wasn't a flying, hooked-on-a-fishline sensation of a portkey, but rather a slow fadeout, light shimmering as if off glass, followed by a brief impression of disembodiment.  
  
When they landed, Harry pulled his hand loose, letting it fall to his side. They were standing in the Great Hall, a bright Spring sky mirrored in the ceiling overhead. Students-some of whom Harry recognized-were busying themselves with breakfast, all of them shouting and laughing in a commotion that somehow seemed louder from up here at the high table. Harry turned to Hermione, who was at his side, gazing out at the students impassively.  
  
"What year is this?" he asked.  
  
"1991," she said. "Day after the Quidditch Cup final." Hearing this, Harry noticed that the Slytherin table was in especially raucous spirits, and that they were all garbed in an unusually high concentration of green and silver clothing. He at once recognized a much fawned-over Marcus Flint, who had been Slytherin team captain during his first year.  
  
-So these were the glory days of the Slytherin house.- he thought vaguely, and a turn of his head verified that Snape was indeed looking quite smug from his seat next to Professor Flitwick.  
  
"I received an owl from Slatero, Albus," McGonagall said, raising an eyebrow and looking at the headmaster from over her teacup. "He's apparently decided to leave Durres and make his way back to the U.K."  
  
"Is that a fact?" The headmaster replied, politely dabbing at his mouth with a cloth napkin.  
  
"Is this what we're here for? Random morning chit-chat at the staff table?" Harry asked Hermione, stage-whispering in a way that struck him as quite foolish, considering he'd already been in a Pensieve once, and was fully aware that no one in this time and place could hear him.  
  
"Sorry. It should only be a few minutes now," Hermione said, adjusting her stance. "Since this is Dumbledore's memory, we can't move until he moves," she added, acknowledging the headmaster, at whose back they were standing.  
  
"Oh," Harry said, remembering how he had been sitting next to Dumbledore throughout the memory of the Death Eater trials. He hadn't attempted to get up and move around then, but for some reason this new knowledge that they were stuck in place made him a bit uneasy.  
  
"Shhh," Hermione shushed, for no good reason that he could see. She pointed with her wand in the direction of an approaching student, a girl who was making her way through the crowded aisle rather meekly, politely excusing herself when a Slytherin appeared to intentionally trip her up. As she got closer, Harry's mouth went dry at the incongruity of what he was seeing. It was Hermione-her past self.  
  
Upon more careful inspection, Harry could see differences in her appearance. Most notable was her much darker hair, which was slightly bushy in a manner that reminded Harry of her old fourth-year hair style-or lack thereof. In addition, she seemed a bit thinner than her current self, or perhaps simply a little less fit. In any case, she certainly had a gracelessness that he found very misplaced; twice she seemed to tread and bumble on the hem of her robes, and both times she straightened up and walked onward, her cheeks blazing.  
  
"Ah, here's comes your Head Girl, Professor Flitwick," Dumbledore said, the turn of his head following the past-Hermione's approach.  
  
"You were Head Girl? And a Ravenclaw?" Harry asked, his jaw dropping in astonishment. He felt oddly betrayed by this revelation.  
  
She nodded subtley. "Both of my parents were Ravenclaws," she said. "I always wanted to be like them."  
  
"Good morning, Helena!" Flitwick chirped.  
  
"Helena!?" Harry gave her a mutinous look. "You're name is Helena?"  
  
"No," she said quickly, waving at him as if he were a pesky insect. "Not anymore. But it was then. Now please.quiet down. Watch."  
  
"Hello, Professor," Helena said, nodding in Flitwick's direction. Then she turned to Dumbledore and stepped closer, lowering her voice a few octaves, and Harry involuntarily leaned in to hear her better. "Headmaster? I was wondering if you had that letter of recommendation that I asked you about last week?" she murmured, her head lowered demurely.  
  
"Of course, Helena. I was going to ask Professor Flitwick to deliver it to you at Lunch, but if you'd like it earlier-"  
  
"Oh! No, no.that won't be necessary. Lunch will do just fine. Oh, I can't thank you enough! Thank you!" The Head Girl looked dangerously near wild salaams and curtsies, positively aglow with appreciation. Her hand bolted out and shook Dumbledore's vigorously, and in her enthusiasm she managed to upset a glass of pumpkin juice, making a soggy mess of poor Professor Sprout's robes.  
  
"Gosh, Herm. Laid it on a bit thick in those days, didn't you?" Harry asked, unable to stop himself from looking at Helena with disdain.  
  
Before the present-Hermione could reply, her counterpart straightened up and pulled away from Dumbledore's earshot, clearing her throat in a showy way. "I'd also like to report that I took the initiative in deducting twenty points from the Slytherins; they've been hassling the Ravenclaws all morning," she announced, crossing her arms self-importantly.  
  
"Hey!" Harry exclaimed, thoroughly taken aback. "You didn't even warn those Slytherins.I saw you walk right past them, and you didn't even say a word as they were tripping you up."  
  
"Oh, Hush," Hermione said, looking grumpy. "It's no use complaining to me now, but you might as well know that I was a bit brutal as Head Girl. Never to anyone's face, of course, but." she trailed off, biting her lip in hesitation.  
  
"But what?" Harry asked, keeping one eye on the unfolding drama; Snape was readily complaining to Flitwick about Helena's tendency to favor her own house when it came to deducting points.  
  
"Well, remember.erm.how I used to defend Percy?"  
  
"Yes," Harry groaned in disgust.  
  
"Let's just say that he more or less copied my old Helena-style, once he was made a Prefect. Though he was less covert with his ruthlessness than I ever was."  
  
"Oh, Hermione," Harry sighed, shaking his head. He watched on as her former self stumbled from the high table dais, then stopped in her tracks to flash a toothy grin in the direction of a tall, muscular boy dressed in Gryffindor robes.  
  
"Isn't that Oliver Wood?" Harry asked, squinting. "And look at the way you're batting your eyes.Holy shit! You were sweet on him, weren't you? And he was only a fourth year!"  
  
Hermione closed her eyes in exasperation. "This is getting more humiliating by the second. I think it's time we moved on," she said, and with a swiping motion of her wand, the scene began to ripple and shift.  
  
When they landed again, they were standing in the middle of a crowded street café; waiters and customers filtered around them, and Harry almost expected to get jostled-but the staff seemed to pass right through them, or move aside as if sensing a foreign presence. This time, Harry remained quiet as he watched Helena and Dumbledore share a lunch together. He wasn't surprised when she began to complain bitterly about Fudge's unwillingness to take her Aurorship application seriously; Sirius had already filled him in on this part.  
  
-This is where it began for her.- he thought, tilting his head to get a better view of the Head Girl that Hermione had once been. The gross display of arse-kissing that he'd witnessed in the Great Hall was nowhere to be seen now; instead, she looked quite frustrated and near tears as she described the failed interview.  
  
A few minutes later, above the din of the café crowd, Harry heard Dumbledore say something that made him question the current function of his ears. "Stop!" he commanded, holding up his wand. The scene froze, and the diners paused over their meals, watery light washing across their faces. "Um.reverse!" he said, ignoring the probing expression that Hermione was giving him. Amazingly, his command worked, and the scene unspooled as if on videotape. After a few seconds he stopped the scene again, then, with a slight wand flick, prompted it back into life.  
  
"As the only member of the Black family who walks this earth freely, isn't it quite possible that you'd like to acquire the Auror skills necessary to track down Lord Voldemort...so that you might be the one who finally kills him?" Dumbledore asked.  
  
"STOP!" Harry shouted, and the scene froze again. He felt a strange, unbridled sense of incredulity tighten around his chest. "The Black family? Voldemort? And he's called you 'Miss Black' at least twice.this isn't about Sirius, is it? I'm not getting this at all!"  
  
"Let's move on," Hermione said succinctly, and the scene rippled out and changed yet again, allowing Harry no time to protest. When they landed, he recognized Dumbledore's office at once, and saw that the headmaster and Helena were alone yet again, apparently caught up in a deep discussion.  
  
Dumbledore was caught in mid-sentence, but Harry managed to catch most of his words: "--this student will, like you, be the subject of much attention when he arrives at Hogwarts. His name is known throughout the wizarding world, just as your own is. I imagine he will be quite overwhelmed and scared, too."  
  
"What?" Harry asked dumbly, thoroughly confused now. He froze the scene and turned to Hermione. "Is Dumbledore talking about me?"  
  
"Yes," she said, seeming uncertain, her eyes not quite meeting his.  
  
"Why was your name known throughout the wizarding world, though? This is the part I don't get. Your name was 'Helena Black'? What's so special about that? Are you a distant relative of Sirius' or something?"  
  
She bit her lip and shook her head faintly, refusing to speak. She prodded the scene into fast-forward for a few seconds, then stopped it again. "I think that this little section may answer your question," she said, sounding weary.  
  
Dumbledore lurched back into speech: "There was a special person I had in mind for the job, Helena. Someone very special indeed. But I'm afraid that he is still in Azkaban. Still presumed guilty by all of the wizarding world."  
  
At this mention of what could only be his Godfather, Harry's full attention was drawn to the scene. Helena, however, was reacting to Dumbledore's words with open disbelief.  
  
"My uncle as Harry Potter's protector? You must be mad!" the girl exclaimed, and Hermione paused the scene at once, effectively silencing her past self.  
  
"Your uncle?" Harry asked, watching curiously as Hermione stared at Helena, regarding the girl as if she were a stranger, or perhaps a long- lost friend that she remembered fondly-Harry couldn't tell which. "Sirius is your uncle?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Harry swallowed, feeling his stomach take on a strange, leaden weight.  
  
"But Sirius doesn't know. He thinks Helena married some American Muggle investment broker. That's what everyone thinks."  
  
"You mean you're not going to tell him?" Harry asked, staring at her in amazement.  
  
"I don't know, Harry," she sighed and bounced on her knees slightly, as if itching to move.  
  
"But why? You're so.well, I would be right pleased if Sirius were *my* uncle. Why aren't you?"  
  
She looked at him sharply, fire suddenly snapping forth in her eyes. "Harry, do you think it was fun, being known as the niece of an infamous dark wizard? The last blood relative of a mad murderer? For most of my life I *hated* Sirius.almost as much as I hated Voldemort. And then when I found out that-"  
  
"Wait!" Harry interrupted. "You hated Voldemort? And you just said his name.you don't usually do that, do you?"  
  
She held his questioning gaze, returning it in a way that was almost.loving. Big-sisterly. It both warmed and discomforted him at once. "Yes, I guess I skipped over that part, didn't I?" she said, pivoting away from the frozen Helena and Dumbledore. "This part.I can describe it without the Pensieve, Harry. If you're willing to listen to me now. You are, aren't you?" She peered at him in a way that struck him as woeful, self-consciously tugging at a ratty length of her hair.  
  
"Of course I'm willing," he said, giving her a small smile.  
  
She smiled back and raised up her wand. "Ready to leave the past?"  
  
At a glimpse of the determined, up-right posture of her neck, and the slight tremble of her hand, he guessed at once what she would tell him once they were freed of the Pensieve. She would reveal that Voldemort had killed her family, and though at one time Harry would have been completely stunned by this turn of events, he found that he wasn't particularly stunned right now. He felt calm. Good, almost.  
  
"Ready," he said. And before she could make for his hand, he reached for hers first.  
  
***********************************  
  
Here's hoping FF.net is up and running for a good solid while, now. =) Thanks to all my regular and not-so-regular reviewers for the helpful commentary and encouragement. After a long vacation I'll be returning to work this week, so the chapter turn-over may slow down a bit. If you're looking for something to read, you might consider my shorter, newer fic, "A Portrait in Silver". Thanks to all. 


	20. Past Imperfect

**Mine Protector**

**Chapter 20:  Past Imperfect  **

**(incomplete:  see Author's Note at end)**

"Ready," Harry said, and pulled her hand into his own, which was warm and slightly sticky, as if he'd been eating sweets.  Not expecting him to take this initiative, Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise, but before she could make out Harry's expression, the air went bright and glassy; she felt the molecules of her body unravel for just a moment before stitching themselves back together again, and the flesh of Harry's hand went briefly gossamer, then returned to its former mass.   

They were not, however, back in Dumbledore's office.  Nor had they returned to the present, it seemed.  

They were in a soggy front yard; a torrential rain was falling, and if this weren't simply a memory, both she and Harry would have been soaking wet by now.  The lawn that stretched out before them was littered with splintered boards and bent tree branches.  A cardboard box was sent along by a brisk wind and rolled in front of Hermione's feet, loping like a stray animal.

"What is this place?" Harry asked, speaking up over the rainfall.  "I thought you were sending us back?" 

There was a broomstick abandoned at the foot of the tree they were standing near.  An old Shooting Star.  

Hermione started to shiver.  _Because it's raining._  No other reason_, she thought, and buttoned her cardigan up with shaking fingers, disappointed to find that it could offer no real warmth.  _

"I didn't send us here," she finally said, her voice cracking.  "And I think we should leave."

But Harry was already turning around, surveying his surroundings.  "It looks like there was an earthquake here, or a hurricane…" he murmured, using his trainer to toe at some wadded fabric that might have once been curtains.  

Hermione shook her head numbly.  "Wrong on both counts," she said, a tremor edging into her voice.  Harry opened his mouth as if to respond, but before he could, they were both startled by shifting movements from the adjacent road-side.  It was Albus Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge, flanked by two other men that Hermione didn't recognise—Aurors, she suspected.  

"There's no sign of the Dark Mark," one of the Aurors said, studying the damaged property.  "She must have been imagining things."

Dumbledore frowned visibly.  "Did you check the signatures?"

"Of course," the Auror said.  "There's no sign of Dark Magic having been performed.  What ever happened here appears to have been an act of nature, pure and simple."

Still, Dumbledore looked doubtful.  "But a nearby Muggle family called the authorities and claimed they had sighted a U.F.O., lit in green and shaped like a skeletal face.  Surely you can't deny that this sounds suspiciously like the Dark Mark?"

"Maybe so, Albus," Fudge shrugged, squinting through the effects of a water-repellant charm.  "But Muggles are always seeing funny things, aren't they?  Probably it _was a You-Eff-Oh …whatever those are."_

"Sir," the second Auror said, in a tone decidedly more serious than Fudge's.  "I know it _sounds like the Dark Mark…but we've checked the grounds several times over.  There's no Dark activity here, and the Black couple appear to have been killed in the building's collapse—there were no curse marks on either of the bodies we found."  _

"Good," Fudge said, nodding hurriedly.  "Then we should be on our way."

From between the two Aurors came an unexpected, hidden scream.  "No!" A small girl was shouting, pulling herself loose from their grasp, enough so that Hermione could suddenly see her: short black curls plastered across her forehead; an unhappy yellow cat clutched to her chest.  Hermione swallowed and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.  "You have to get that man!  He was here...I saw him!  He had a skull…a skull!" the child shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria.  

At her side, Harry breathed in sharply.  "I don't want to see this," he said thickly.  "I knew…somehow I knew that Voldemort must have killed your parents, too.  But I don't want to see this.  Hermione, please…"

Hermione nodded stiffly and raised her wand, Harry's clammy hand clutched in her own.  She pulled an upwards gesture, but nothing happened.  Rain continued to spray heavily down around them, thickening the mud where they stood.  

"I can't, Harry…" she stammered.  "It won't let me."  She watched on in horror as one of the Auror's clasped a hand over the struggling girl's mouth.  __

_Me.  That's me_.  Hermione shook her head in disbelief, the whole of her body going clammy.

"Stop that, Murray.  Let the girl be," Dumbledore admonished, his tone stiff and non-negotiable.  "I would like to speak with her alone, if you don't mind."

"I don't want to see this," Harry repeated, his face white and smeary behind the sheet of rain.  

_You and me both…_

Hermione didn't blame him for wanting to leave; he'd been too young to really remember his parents' murder and the aftermath that followed, and now the murder of her own was serving as a template for him to imagine what it was like to witness such a thing.  

_And even my own memory is full of more holes than I ever realized_, she thought, watching her seven year-old self be led away by Dumbledore.  The old wizard had never appeared in any of her nightmares—in her own memories she'd never even met the man until she arrived at Hogwarts.  And yet here he was, grasping her tiny hand and gathering up the mewling bundle that was Ursula the cat, leading them both towards the tree where Harry and Hermione were currently standing.  

"You've had a difficult night, haven't you Helena?" Dumbledore said, and a large umbrella burst from the tip of his wand and floated overhead, serving as temporary shelter.  He spoke to the girl kindly, but without the usual condescension that adults reserve for children.  Recognizing this, Helena blinked up at him in wonder, tears fast-drying on her cheeks.  

"I want Mum and Dad," she said, her chin wobbling ever so slightly.

"They're gone, child.  I think you already know that," Dumbledore said soothingly, and the girl swallowed hard.

_Cry.  Why didn't I cry?_ Hermione wondered, ignoring the faint moaning noises that were coming from Harry.

"Will you get them?" The little girl pled, tugging on Dumbledore's robes.  "That bad man and his friend.  Kill them for me, okay?"

Harry let out a gasp that echoed Hermione's.  

_Please…oh please I didn't just ask Dumbledore to kill Voldemort.  No, I couldn't have done that._

"Justice will be served in time, child.  I can promise you that," Dumbledore said, his brow furrowing in concern.  "Right now I want to ask you about the skull that you saw.  Where was it?"

"Over there."  Helena gestured placidly at what was left of the destroyed house.  "It was big."

"Yes."  Dumbledore nodded slightly.  "Where did the skull go?" 

"I got rid of it," the little girl said simply, shrugging her shoulders.  

"How?" Dumbledore asked, incredulity creeping across his features.

Helena pulled a pencil-sized wand from her pocket.  Lazily, she waved it in a figure eight, then did an about face and pointed it towards the wrecked house.  "Reducto," she intoned, then dropped her arm at once, that flattened expression never leaving her face.  

"You got rid of it with your school wand?"

"Yes," the girl said, sliding the wand into the pocket of her sweatshirt.  

"Why are you lying to him?" Harry said, speaking up suddenly from her far right side. 

Hermione frowned.  "But I wasn't lying…I don't think."  

"Well, you must have been in shock, then…" Harry said, his face crumpling in thought.  "Ron once told me that school wands are little more than sticks or pencils.  Used for waving techniques is all. No magical substance in the core, so I expect there's no way you could have erased the Dark Mark with that wand."

"But I did—"  Hermione broke off, her frown deepening.  She watched as Dumbledore led Helena back to Fudge and the Aurors, looking thoroughly perplexed.  Just as he opened his mouth to speak to Fudge, Hermione found that she could no longer make out his words--the rain was too deafening.  And even as she struggled to catch a scrap of the conversation, she felt the ground liquefy beneath her.  

"Quick!  Grab hold!"  Harry shouted, clutching her hand at once.  

"No, wait…" Hermione mumbled, trying to break loose.  _I have to see this.  I have to remember.  I have to—_

The air went bleach white, and was swiftly followed by complete blackness. 

-----

 A few minutes later, Hermione opened her eyes to the dim light of Dumbledore's office….not to mention one doozy of a headache.  She was sprawled on the stone floor with Harry directly at her side, his hand still loosely wrapped around her own.  

"Ouch," she groaned, shaking Harry's hand free and stretching a bit before getting to her feet.  

Not surprisingly, Dumbledore was watching them from his armchair, an inquiring expression on his face.  

"I suppose you were responsible for that detour," Hermione remarked, shaking her head slightly. 

"Excellent guess," he said calmly, bringing an ivory pipe to his lips.  

"Why would you _do_ that?" Harry asked, looking dismayed.  "That was…awful."  He pulled his cloak from the floor and wrapped it around his thin body, clearly shaken.  In that moment he reminded Hermione of the boy he'd been at age eleven—emotionally vulnerable, but rather lost and overwhelmed by his own surroundings.  

"Shh, Harry," Hermione said, though gently.  It was they, after all, who had used Dumbledore's pensieve without permission; if he had indeed disrupted their sightseeing, she couldn't help but feel that he rather had the right to do so.  

Assuming this was the case, she went ahead and spoke up:  "My home, Albus......If you were there, and I was there, then our memories of that night would have been the same, wouldn't they?"

Dumbledore chewed on his pipe, regarding her with an expression of mixed curiosity.  "Harry," he began, eyes darting over to where Harry stood, huddled under his winter cloak.  "Perhaps you should leave Hermione and me to sort this out.  I believe your Godfather is expecting you in his quarters."

Harry nodded dully, though was alert enough to flash Hermione a quick, searching look before he gathered up the rest of his things and exited the Headmaster's office.  In the wake of his absence, Hermione felt oddly young and exposed--her resolve somehow deflated.  She came forth on uncertain feet, finally lowering herself at Dumbledore's side.

"I don't remember you being there," she said, her voice coarse as she struggled to hold herself together.  Why was she feeling this way?  It was just a memory.  It was all the past, and it shouldn't matter anymore.

_But it does.  Because it's not *_my*_ memory…..and yet I feel as thought it should belong to me.  Just me._

"Are you surprised?  On a night when your whole life changes, why should you remember one old man?" he asked, a tendril of smoke leaking from the corner of his mouth.    

She closed her eyes, saw that little black-haired girl who seemed nothing like herself.  "How did I get rid of the Dark Mark, Albus?  I was only seven.  My wand wasn't even real…...just a school wand."

"Remember Galway's book, Hermione," he suggested, coughing once.  

She did so, snippets of words coming back to her as her headache gradually faded away.

_A moment when the will or self is at a critical breaking point...… Only surrender from order can call the nameless.  The Aneamus…._

"So you're saying my will broke down.  That's why the nameless—the Aneamus—came to me?  That it was they who banished the Dark Mark?"

He frowned.  "There is no _they_ Hermione.  The 'nameless' is just another word for raw, unformed and untapped magic.  Magic before it's been shaped by incantation or potion.  It's the kind of innate magic that every Witch or Wizard is born with—all sentient creatures are born with it, and though not all choose to use or recognize it, it's what our very bodies and minds are made of."

She studied him carefully, noting the way in which he seemed to be avoiding her eyes.  "So it's a weakness, then.  A weakness of will.  Not a special power at all."

He looked at her sharply, a strange light snapping forth in his eyes.  "Sometimes letting go of one's will is the only choice available, Hermione.  Have you ever heard stories of Muggles who have been in terrible accidents, only to find that they were somehow able to survive….even against tremendous odds?  Perhaps they were lost and starving for weeks, or perhaps they somehow freed themselves from the heavy wreckage of a burning vehicle.  Muggles like to chalk this up to miracles, though less religious ones sometimes blame this phenomenon on something called adrenaline—but it's really just another form of Anaemus.  The human will, under extreme duress, can lean on the supporting elements and manage to perform tremendous feats, Hermione.  It is not a weakness, it is a matter of survival."

"Fine," she said, already feeling weary by this conversation that was leaving her with more questions than answers.  "So I survived and my parents didn't.  But that doesn't explain why I managed to hurl a curse at you all those weeks ago.  I didn't fear for my life then, so why did my will collapse?"

He paused, and she had a sudden, overwhelming sense that he was working towards revealing a big _something_….something that he'd been waiting to tell her, biding his time until she was ready to have this conversation, to have the gaps in her past fleshed out and made whole.  The old Headmaster stroked his beard thoughtfully, and as she watched, a memory came back to her.  No….it didn't just _come back, it dropped back, sliding into place like a picture into a frame.  Dumbledore—such a funny old man, his beard had reminded her of fluffy spun sugar, and if she hadn't been so very sad, so very young, she might have said something to him about it.  Instead, she asked him to kill Voldemort.  He was a strong Wizard, a good wizard, and she could tell because he looked her in the eyes instead of looking at the top of her head like those others did—the Aurors.  _

"They obliviated my memory away….those two Aurors," she said.  "I wouldn't stop screaming about the Dark Mark, so they just…took it away.  Or tried to, anyway.  But I never really forgot."

He nodded.  "I was against any tampering with your memory—such spells can easily damage a child, after all.  But you made Fudge very nervous.  He didn't want to believe that Voldemort was attacking pureblood families, you see.  He was then as he is now; far better at damage control than he is at any sort of true order."

"_Why_ was Voldemort interested in my family anyway?  That's something I've never known.  My parents were nothing special—just an ordinary Witch and Wizard.  They didn't even work for the Ministry.  Mum taught at the village school and Dad worked for the local Apothecary.  How could they be a threat to anyone?"  

"That I don't know, Hermione.  Later, I wondered if it had something to do with Lily and James—or with Sirius, for that matter—but no such connection was ever confirmed.  I can only assume that the truth still lies with Voldemort and his followers."

"And why no _Avada Kedavara_?" she continued.  "That was his usual modus operandi, wasn't it?  Yet he killed my parents with an environmental curse…why?  To cover his tracks?  But in that case he wouldn't have put up the Dark Mark, right?"  She felt her face redden as she spoke faster, all the questions she'd held in for years finally boiling to the surface.

"Voldemort was fond of all three Unforgivables, but he usually ordered that a Death Eater cast them." Dumbledore said, his expression souring. "But he had a creative side, as well.  He enjoyed inventing untraceable, destructive curses.  Deranged as he was, he occasionally saw _Avada Kedavara as a little too easy.  A little too predictable."_

"Molto Windaro," Hermione murmured, realising she had no idea what those two words meant.  They weren't even Latin, as many incantations were.  "That's the trigger, isn't it?  When you cursed me, you used the words…."

"Halo Windaro," he finished, closing his eyes briefly. 

"And since that moment, something in me has remembered.  My will—whatever that is—remembers that moment of weakness now.  That's why I was able to avoid Roland Nott's stun, down in the dungeons.  It's also why…." she trailed off, cold horror washing over her, gorge roiling in her stomach.  What had she seen under the hallucinogenic atropine?  

_Oh yes…myself, stabbing Macnair over and over again, splashing in the blood, licking his wounds…_

"I killed him," she whispered, her voice cracking.  "I didn't mean to, but it was me, wasn't it?  My will was broken; the magic turned on me…turned the knife around in his hand…"

"Self defense, Hermione," Dumbledore said, his voice quietly resonant.  "And your will is not_ broken--it is simply not closed off to the suggestion of nameless, raw magic.  Like it or not, a conduit was opened inside you on the day your parents were killed.  That conduit remains there still."_

"But I have no control over it," she said, her throat tightening.  "I will hurt people—I already have."  A million realizations were washing over her at once; was this why Dumbledore had sought her out?  To keep a tight reign on this weakness—this Anaemus—that he knew she possessed?  She felt as if a wildfire were beginning to burn just beneath the surface of her skin; if she didn't douse it, it would soon overpower her, shriveling her up until she was nothing more than a body of bright ash.  One gust would send her scattering.  

"Your lack of control can be dealt with," Dumbledore said, suddenly stern.  "This is why I've shown you your lost memory, Hermione.  I've long protected you from the truth, but as soon as Sirius arrived, I knew that old questions would resurface in your mind—whispers of what happened to your real family…the one you once dreamed of avenging.  I wanted you to finally reconstruct your past, so that you might be able to focus on the future.  And only there can you learn to control what lies within you."

"What happens if I don't control it?" She asked, feeling her lower lip tremble with the question.  

"I imagine it would eventually snuff you out.  Like a moth to a flame, you'd burst with the burden of all that concentrated energy."

She laughed, and the noise sounded strained and odd, even to her; "Snuff out"--the metaphor suited the way she was feeling…all that fire racing under her skin.  Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow, concerned, and she clamped her lips shut.  She'd heard stories of people who'd burst into flames before—spontaneous combustion, their hearts burning from the inside out until nothing was left but a few fingers.  Sometimes there was nothing left other than two feet laced up in perfect, un-burnt shoes.  But maybe Dumbledore was speaking of a type of mental combustion; she couldn't deny the burn she felt behind her forehead.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"  To her own ears, her voice sounded young—the same voice she'd had at age seven.  Helena's voice.  

"Another difficult night, is it?" He said, his brow crinkling in that familiar way.

"Albus," she said, her voice cracking.  "I don't know what to do."

The headmaster nodded slowly, his face grave.  "The Death Eaters sense your importance, Hermione—just as they sense the importance of Sirius, Remus, Severus…and everyone else who is willing to fight against Voldemort's uprising."  He paused for a beat, seeming graver still.  "I fear they will do their best to ruin you at the inquiry, Hermione.  They don't know what role you play, but they will want to silence you just the same."

********************************

Authors Notes:  

I'm posting this mainly because even though this fic has sat without updates for nearly a near, I still get reviews and questions about it.  

Here's the story:  I began writing Mine Protector about 2 days after I found out that Fanfiction even existed.  I wrote sporatically, making things up as I went along, and basically without any concept of there being a "fandom canon" of fics that already existed.  Once I started reading more fanfic, I realized that I had made a number of missteps in writing this, both in characterization and plot.  I eventually grew uncomfortable with continuing the story and wanted to start anew with a brand-new concept that reflected my now-thorough knowledge of HP fanfiction.  This is how _Faster Mudblood! Kill! Kill! was born.  FMKK is, in my opinion, is a much better and more worth-while piece of fanfiction.  MP, while good in its own way, is for me like looking at a picture of myself from highschool.  It's awkward and funny and doesn't look the way I want it to look.  FMKK is multi-shipped, rather than being purely S/H, and contains both het and slash.  There is a developing S/H relationship, but it is moving much more slowly—and more authentically, I think—than the S/H in Mine Protector.  Nevertheless, fans of MP seem to be uninterested in FMKK.  I'm not sure why this is, except perhaps because it does not immediately gratify those who are seeking fluff and romance.  _

At any rate, I'd like to offer readers this incomplete chapter 20 of MP, which was written almost a year ago, in hopes that it might sustain you for a time.  I'm afraid I can't pick up on MP again unitil I have FMKK completed and out of my system.  And if I ever _do pick up MP again, you can probably expect it to undergo a vast and extensive re-write.  _

Until then, enjoy and take care! 


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